


Hanky-Panky on the Hellmouth

by TrueImmortality



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Supernatural, The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Angst and Humor, Attempt at Humor, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Sexual Situations, Awkwardness, Crack, Crack Crossover, Crack Treated Seriously, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Crush at First Sight, Dean and Buffy Kill Stuff Together, F/M, Gen, Gender Roles, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Magic Made Them Do It, Magic-Users, Pretending to Be Gay, Role Reversal, Sex Magic, Sex Pollen, Sexual Humor, Spring Fling, Sunnydale, Teenage Dorks, The Hellmouth, Trope Subversion, Willow and Sam are Geeks Together, Wizard Harry, witch willow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-11 17:12:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 24
Words: 62,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7900990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrueImmortality/pseuds/TrueImmortality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The setting: Sunnydale, in the spring of Buffy and company's sophomore year, mere days before the high school's annual Spring Fling. The dilemma: a strange rash of human sacrifices involving naive teenage boys. The solution: a suspicious coincidence which lands a pair of young hunters and a wizard and his vampire smack dab in the middle of the action. The Hellmouth never saw it coming. And Giles might need a little more than tea to see him through. Crack crossover at its finest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Madonna Me Gently

 

**HANKY-PANKY ON THE HELLMOUTH: A CRACK CROSSOVER**

By TrueImmortality

* * *

 

 

_\--Sunnydale, California—_

 

            Alexis was every California schoolboy’s dream: she was tall and generously proportioned, with sleek blonde hair and daring blue eyes and enough makeup to make her look older than her professed seventeen years. She had on some spectacularly inadequate jeans and a halter top. And she had asked Jim Creed if he’d wanted to walk in the woods with her.

            Now, Jim was only fourteen, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew junior girls didn’t mess around with freshmen, even if they were at the same bonfire party. He’d been skeptical enough to ask Alexis if she was joking. Alexis had only smiled, her glossy pink lips inviting. “Am I laughing, sugar?” she’d asked, and had taken his hand. “Come on, before your friends notice.”

            Jim had taken that answer as good enough. Leaving the bonfire party in a heartbeat, he hurried after her, pulled along by Alexis’s startlingly warm hand. He stumbled a couple times, too lost in the fact that a girl had paid attention to him—and even asked him to go alone into the woods with her—to watch his feet. At length, when Alexis had led him for a good fifteen minutes, he got up the courage to ask, “Um, Alexis, where are we going?”

            “Somewhere private,” Alexis had whispered, with another pink-glossed smile.

            “Okay,” Jim swallowed, “but we’ve been walking a long time. I think we’ve left the party way behind.”

            The two of them broke through the tree line and Alexis abruptly stopped. “Ah, here we are,” she said, and dropped Jim’s hand.

            Jim stood, looking at the scene before him in bewilderment. The clearing before him looked a lot like the party he had just left, only instead of one bonfire, there were at least half a dozen, all ranged around the clearing’s edges. There was a table low to the ground, stuffed with all kinds of foods and what looked like—

            “Is that a full bar?” Jim asked, blankly. “In the middle of the woods?”

            Alexis sashayed back over and handed him a bottle of whiskey. “Jim Beam for my Jim,” she said, and laughed. “Go on, have a swig, Jim.” Then she waved a hand. “All right, party people, let’s get _this_ party started!”

            All around the bonfire, figures appeared from out of the woods with shrieks and rude whistles. Jim gaped in disbelief as they all danced steadily toward him. The bottle of whiskey in his hand was forgotten, until Alexis came back up to him and raised it to his lips. Jim drank some of the stringent liquid, but he coughed up most of it. He wasn’t much of a drinker.

            “Drink it up, Jim!” Alexis said. Some of the dancing figures seized Jim’s arms and tied them behind his back, and his would-be hookup started pouring more liquor down his throat. Jim thrashed his head back and forth, but it didn’t do any good; Alexis was way stronger than she looked.

            In short order, Jim’s world swayed back and forth. He tipped dizzily as he felt his body lifted up and carried to what felt like a cold, stone table. He stared blearily at Alexis, who started dancing to the beat of what sounded like a [Madonna song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zHW5RVvg2v4) through throaty boom box speakers. “Madonna?” Jim mumbled, through his whiskey daze. “Really?”

            Alexis whirled away. Someone stood over Jim. The words said were lost on him, but he understood the knife held high in the figure’s hand well enough. Even though Jim Beam had done its best to dull his senses, Jim Creed was alert enough to voice a dull protest as the knife came down, right over his heart.

            Jim Creed died. Madonna played on, singing cheerily into the smoke-streaked night.

 

* * *

 

 

 

            “Like a virgin,” sang Drusilla, dreamily, as she plucked the feathers off a newly-strangled chicken. “Like a virgin…feeling your heart beat next to mine…”

            “What’s that, love?” asked Spike. He lounged against a table in the old warehouse, lazily rolling a lighter between his fingers.

            “The Madonna’s singing to the dead boy,” Dru answered, rubbing chicken feathers all over her body. “Dead boy doesn’t hear, though. Pity.”

            “That’s nice,” sighed Spike.

            Dru straightened suddenly, dropping her feathers. “Oh,” she breathed. She flung her head back and raised her arms above her head, as if to ward off a blow. “Oh. The pretty hunters, they’ve got the scent. They’re going to find the little deer.” She made a gun out of her fingers. “Pow, pow, pow!” Then she turned to Spike, sticking her lower lip. “They’re such naughty boys, Spike. Why must they follow?” Dru clutched her head, mussing her long, dark hair. “Silver bullets, green eyes, I don’t like it—don’t like it—“

            “Shhh, love,” Spike said. He set down the lighter and strode to Drusilla, pulling her against him. He stroked a hand through her hair. Dru quieted instantly. “You tell me when the naughty boys come to town,” Spike said, soothingly, “and I’ll string them up and let you pluck at them like that chicken, eh?” When Dru only pouted, he kissed her and stroked her cheek. “Eh? How’s that sound, my little dove?”

            Dru made doe eyes at Spike, but she leaned against him and pressed the length of her body against his. “I get to do the plucking?”

            “All of it,” Spike promised. “Every bit.”

            Dru smiled, slowly and seductively. “All right, Spike. I’ll be watching for my little chickens, yeah?”   

            Behind her, Spike’s eyes fixed on the mutilated bird, and his eyes burned with a raging curiosity. “Of course, love,” he said. “I know how much you love to watch.”

 


	2. The Boys Are Back in Town

1.  

            “Ugh,” Buffy Summers said, as she slumped into her high school history class, “the spring equinox.”

            “What about it?” asked Xander, as he lazily scribbled a doodle onto his paper.

            “Giles says it’s bound to be a zinger,” Buffy said. “Apparently, lots of not-so-kosher things can happen when day and night are completely equal in length. And on top of that, we’ve got that stupid Spring Fling happening this weekend. Who knows what kind of hijinks that’s going to draw into town.”

            “Like the rain of toads that happened in that small town in Missouri,” Willow supplied, helpfully, as she stacked up her tabulated and highlighted notes. “Oh, or the time when everyone in Hoboken, New Jersey, started dancing in the streets and no one could figure out why except this astrologer who was tracking the equinox.”

            “Sometimes, Will, talking to you is like talking to an encyclopedia with legs and a mouth,” Xander said.

            “Mass dancing in the streets is an old whacky phenomenon,” Willow went on, even as the rest of the history class settled into their seats. “It’s called [St Vitus’s Dance](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dancing_mania), or choreomania, and every person in town will dance until they pass out. Pretty weird, huh? I mean, kind of not the worst thing that could happen to Sunnydale, but still weird.”

            “Have you seen my dance moves?” asked Xander. “I’m pretty sure they’re worse than half the things that have crawled out of the Hellmouth.”

            “Your funky chicken impression beats The Master in creepishness any day of the week,” Buffy agreed.

            “I’ve been reading up on the equinox, just in case something like that happens here,” Willow said. “That’s why I know all the frogs and dancing stuff.”

            “Gotcha,” Xander said. Their teacher began the lecture, cutting off the teens’ repartee.  

            History class was about as interesting to Buffy as it usually was, which meant that she successfully avoided taking a nap on her textbook for the fifth day in a row, but she couldn’t manage enough wakefulness to absorb the lecture. Willow happily took notes beside her. Xander seemed to have a method of study which involved writing down every third sentence or so, then taking a break to doodle. Buffy was the first one out of her desk as the class ended.

            “Thank goodness it’s lunch period,” she sighed, as her two amigos packed up their bags. “I was about to start eating my pencil. Not that I was using it to take notes, so it’s not like I’d miss it, but still.”

            Willow rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “Buffy, this was an important lecture. You know the Battle of Lexington Green is going to be on the exam.”

            “It would be a more riveting subject if it involved a green Lexus rather than a bunch of old dead guys duking it out over the country,” Buffy said.

            “Yeah, but according to most historians, it was kind of the tip-off of the Revolutionary War. It’s just not as glamorous as the story of Paul Revere or George Washington’s crossing of the Potomac—“

            “Crap.” Buffy interrupted Willow’s excited diatribe. “I forgot: I’m supposed to go see Giles on lunch period. He wants to test drive some new protective charm bracelet.” Her posture slumped. “I’m so hungry, though….”

            “We’ll grab you something to eat and meet you in the library in ten minutes,” Xander said. “You want lobster or filet mignon?”

            “I’ll take whichever cafeteria food option won’t try to run when I stab it with a fork,” Buffy said. “Thanks, guys.”

            Xander shrugged. “Don’t mention it. Come on, Willow, let’s go find the grub.”

            “I hope it’s not grubs,” Willow said worriedly, as she and Xander walked away. “D’you think the lunch ladies would ever serve grubs and disguise it as spaghetti? Gosh, I hope not…”

            Buffy blew out some air and ruffled the hair across her face. She shouldered her backpack squarely and trotted to the library. Through the small windows in the doors, she could see her watcher, Giles, as he bent over a book on one of the library’s many desks. As the slayer, Buffy sometimes wondered how watchers got to be as cool as Giles when they always had their heads stuck in books. As she came into the library, she knocked loudly on the door.

 Giles looked up and smiled as she came over to his desk. “Buffy! Aren’t you a little early?”

“It’s lunch period,” Buffy said, “so here I am.” She held out her arms and did a little twirl.

“Very good, very good.” Giles took a small box from the desk drawer and opened it. He showed its contents to Buffy. Inside the box was a bracelet woven from some kind of plant fiber with silver beads threaded into the weave. “This is a bracelet of my own design, actually,” Giles explained, absent-mindedly tapping the bridge of his glasses. “It’s made of hyssop, which, traditionally speaking, is a holy plant, and of course the beads are silver, fashioned from a re-purposed crucifix.”

Buffy eyed the little beads and then slipped the bracelet on her wrist. It fit almost perfectly. “Groovy,” she said. “But we won’t know if it works until I go out on patrol.”

“Yes, well, we can certainly wait for an opportunity to present itself. There’s no need to go looking for a test subject,” Giles said, with a hint of discomfort. “You do have Angel’s crucifix, which is sufficient for most vampires.”

Buffy looked at the sundry items strewn across the desk. The local paper caught her eye. She leaned closer and read the headline: THIRD LOCAL BOY GOES MISSING IN PARK. “What’s this?” she asked, pointing to the paper.

Giles looked where her hand was pointing, squared his shoulders, and cleared his throat. “Oh, that. Well, I was going to tell you about that after I had looked into the case more thoroughly.”

“They’re both pointing and staring at the same thing,” Xander stage-whispered, from the library doors. “Certain danger is at hand.”

“The pointing and staring is usually a bad sign,” Willow agreed. As Buffy and Giles turned their attention from the paper to the two teens in the doorway, Willow waved a covered plate at Buffy. “Look! They had non-lethal baked chicken! It even came with corn and potatoes!”

“That’s great, Will.” Buffy turned back to the paper, chewing on her lip. “Giles, are you thinking these disappearances are of a slayer-related nature?”

            “Disappearances?” Xander repeated. He and Willow came over to the desk.

            Willow read the headline as well and nodded. “I read about those. It did seem kind of suspicious. I mean, there’s been a new missing kid every day for the past three days. That’s definitely not some kind of accident or coincidence.”

            “Agreed,” Giles said. “The victims are remarkably similar in age and sex: they’re all teenage boys, freshmen or sophomores. They were all out in Sunnydale Nature Trail Park for one reason or another. The parallels are too blatant to ignore.” He slid one hand up and ran it through his hair distractedly. “The only problem is that I have no clue as to what might be taking these children and for what purpose.”

            “Hasn’t stopped us before,” Buffy said, unfazed. “We should go check out the park.”

            “ _After_ school,” Willow emphasized.

            Buffy sighed but nodded. “Yeah, sure. After the massively boring sixth period economics lecture. We wouldn’t want to miss that.”

            “Atta girl,” Buff,” Xander said. “Now come on, eat your lunch before I do.”

            Economics was as dull as Buffy expected it to be. She struggled through the lecture with all the finesse of a pig in a ballet studio. Finally, just when she was convinced the torturous lesson had come to an end, her economics teacher cleared his throat and said, “Now, kids, as you all know, the annual Sunnydale School System Spring Fling is scheduled at the end of this week. And, according to statistics, most Sunnydale teenagers see this event as a great time to party without adult supervision. Consequentially, this is one of the hottest times of the year for teen pregnancies and STDs.” The teacher raised his eyebrows impressively, as if this statement should make a big impact on his audience of hormonally-driven juniors. “As part of the community outreach towards this event, there will be a meeting of the Sunnydale Abstinence from Pre-Marital Sex League tomorrow after school. This is not a mandatory meeting, but I would encourage each of you to think about going to see what the group has to say about staying safe during your second to last year of high school.”

After the impromptu abstinence advertisement, their teacher handed them all flyers about the meeting of the abstinence league (Buffy started calling them The League of S.A.P.S. in her head). She stuffed the flyer in her backpack, then went to the vending machine for some much-needed chocolate to jump-start her slayer attentiveness for the late afternoon park investigation.

Willow and Xander met her at the entrance to the school. Giles followed soon after with a satchel slung over one shoulder. At the teens’ inquiring looks, he explained. “Given the nature of the many malicious wood-dwelling spirits recorded in lore, I thought it best to bring some protection with us.”

            “Always making with the smart thinking, Giles,” Buffy said, approvingly. “That’s why you’re the watcher and we’re the grunt workers.”

            “Actually, I believe it’s why I’m the adult and you are the reckless teenagers over which I am unofficial warden,” Giles said, blandly.

            Buffy smiled. “That too.”

            Giles drove them to Sunnydale Nature Trail Park. The park was modest, with a small spattering of picnic tables at its entrance, a partially-paved walking trail which turned into a dirt foot-path a quarter-mile into the woods, and a few clearings reserved for camping. There was a body of water which might have counted as a lake in the desert, but in California it could only be considered a duck pond. “I’m not sensing any creepy vibes from this place,” Buffy said, standing with her hands on her hips. “It looks pretty Mayberry to me.”

            “Yeah, I’m kind of expecting Opie to run up with a fishing pole any second now,” said Xander.

            “I think we can all agree that appearances can be deceiving,” Giles said. “A more in-depth survey of the area might turn up something unusual.” He saddled himself with the satchel and set off for the footpath. Buffy shrugged and followed after him. Willow and Xander followed Buffy, as usual.

            “I didn’t wear the right kind of shoes to school today,” Willow said sadly, looking down at her cute little loafers, scuffed and streaked with dirt.

            “Take ‘em off,” Xander suggested. “The ground’s pretty soft, here.” Willow took his advice, slipping off her shoes and holding them in one hand while they trailed after Buffy and Giles. “Do you think these disappearances are really tied back to some kind of creepy-crawler?” Xander asked, a moment later. “I mean, I hate to say it, but kids go missing all the time, and it’s not always because a vampire got ‘em.”

            “These three boys were all high schoolers,” Willow said. “And they all started out at the park in a group with some of their friends. Somehow, each one got separated, and their friends could never find them. It sure sounds like some kind of beast culled them from the herd, or something.”

            “’Culled them from the herd’?” Xander repeated, in a shocked tone. “Willow, what kind of twisted stuff _have_ you been researching? That was downright creepy lingo!”

            Willow grew pink in her cheeks. “Sometimes I get a little too much into the mindset of the killer,” she said, earnestly, but her eyes twinkled as she said it.

            “Yeah, a bit,” Xander said, and reached over to pull her into a headlock. Willow laughed and tried to escape, but Xander’s height and weight lent him an advantage over the smaller and shorter Willow.

            The mini-skirmish lasted all the way into one of the more secluded camping clearings where Giles and Buffy were already standing. Willow giggled out, “Stop it, Xander!” and gave one final push. Xander released her at that exact moment, and she tumbled out of his grip and onto the grass of the clearing. Her butt hit something hard and sharp. “Ouch,” Willow said, and felt behind her. Her fingers found and pulled at a glass object which had been buried in the soft dirt. She tugged harder and brought the object out of the dirt. “Huh,” Willow said, and showed the object to Xander. “It’s an empty whiskey bottle.”

            Xander raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, and it’s Jim Beam. Really classy.” He took the bottle and held it up to the light. His face lost a little color. “Uh, Willow, this bottle isn’t empty…it’s got blood in it.”

            Willow laughed. “Stop kidding around, Xander.” At the look on Xander’s face, she stopped laughing. “Wait, you’re serious?” Xander nodded. Willow gaped. “But—but—who would do that? Who would pour out all that whiskey and put blood in its place?”

            Xander blinked. “I think the more likely scenario is the murderer drank the whiskey to work up the courage to, you know, murder someone.”

            Willow thought for a second. “Well, yeah, I guess that could happen, too.”

            Buffy and Giles walked over to the pair. Xander showed Giles the bottle of whiskey-blood. Giles took it with two fingers and tilted it this way and that. “Oh, dear,” he finally said. The teenagers stared at him in silence. “Well, this is certainly not what I hoped to find on this little field trip,” the watcher went on. “You see, Buffy and I discovered disturbed ground all over this clearing which indicates that some sort of moderately-sized gathering took place here over the course of several days. This rather grisly bit of litter paired with the trodden ground and some remnants of a summoning spell point to a ritualistic killing designed to bring forth a powerful entity from beyond the natural world.”

            “Dumb it down for those of us who have economics-fried brains, Giles,” Buffy said.

            “Erm,” Giles said, “people had a party, they made some mojo, and they sacrificed a youth to bring forth—I mean, to attract—some kind of minor god. They were trying to worship something here, and they needed a sacrifice to do so.”

            Buffy nodded, then took a deep, cleansing breath. “So, I guess that means we’ll be working a case over the equinox weekend, after all.”

            “It appears so,” Giles said. Then he tensed and stared hard at the tree line over Buffy’s shoulder, his eyes narrowing.

            “Giles?” Buffy asked, tense in response to Giles’s posture.

“We’re not alone,” Giles said, in a low voice. He pulled a stake from his satchel and handed it to Buffy, then he drew out an old-fashioned six-shooter. “There, behind those two trees. I know I saw something.”

“I’ll handle this,” Buffy said. Before anyone could agree or protest, she had run the length of the clearing and ducked behind the two suspicious-looking trees. There was a minor racket and the sound of a gunshot rang out in the afternoon air. With a collective shout, Giles, Willow, and Xander raced across the clearing. They surged behind the two trees, wild-eyed and worried for their slayer. Of course, they probably should have known to be more concerned for whoever had tried to shoot her.

Buffy was kneeling quite calmly on the ground, and she had a man’s arm twisted behind his back to the point of extreme pain. Beside him, another man was laid out cold, his tall figure nearly obscured by the rain of leaves set off by the wayward bullet that had been directed harmlessly into the treetops. “Buffy,” Giles said, cautiously, “are you all right?”

“Is _she_ all right?” gasped the man in Buffy’s defensive hold. “Who has their arm nearly snapped off behind their back?”

“Don’t be a wuss,” Buffy said, and added a little more pressure to make her point.

“What is going on right now,” Xander said, blankly.

            “Did you kill this guy, Buffy?” Willow asked, leaning over the supine man. She pulled a leaf off his face.

            “Nope, he just took a tree to the back of the head after he tried to jump me,” Buffy said.

            “You ran too fast for a human,” the conscious stranger said, still with his arm twisted. “We thought you were gonna attack us, obviously. Genius.” Buffy torqued his arm a little more. “Ouch! Okay, okay, we’re sorry we tried to shoot you. We’ll make nice with the crazy lady.”

            “You know that not every human-like creature on this earth is human?” asked Giles, in surprise.

            “Uh, yeah,” the man said, slowly. “That’s why we’re here. Supernatural sh—I mean, stuff—goes down in Sunnydale all the time. Human sacrifices aren’t exactly a dime a dozen in regular California towns, are they?” He raised an eyebrow at Giles’s gun. “Nice six-shooter, by the way.”

Giles stared at the man. “Who are you?”

“I’m a guy who would really like to use this arm tomorrow,” the man said, with an uncomfortable shrug of the shoulders. “Could you please call off the crazy lady?”

“Buffy, I think perhaps in this case we can expend a little moderation. He’s clearly not a vampire.”

Buffy huffed, but she released the man’s arm. On the ground, the unconscious man began to stir. Willow jumped back like she had been electrocuted. Xander stepped in front of her defensively. The man Buffy had restrained rose to his feet with a small groan, then rotated his arm. “Yep, that’s gonna hurt for a few days,” he said, moving it gently. “Oh, well. Shake it off, I guess.” He looked at the small half-circle of people who watched him with deep suspicion. He waved his good hand and gave them a winning smile. “Hi.”

“Tell us who you are,” Giles said, slowly, “or I will let Buffy go back to practicing her hapkido on you.”

The man’s smile turned into a grimace. “Let’s not. That sounds way too creepy for a girl her age to try on a guy my age.” He held out a hand and offered it to Buffy. Buffy took it with her eyebrows high on her forehead. “I’m Dean,” the man said. “Nice to have my butt kicked by you.” Then his face darkened. “But if you hurt my brother, I’m gonna have to do something about it.”

There was a weak groan from the forest floor, and then a groggy voice said, “Shut up, all of you. My head is killing me.”

“That’s Sam,” Dean said, pointing at the man who pulled himself off the ground in shaky increments.

“Your head had an unfortunate accident with a tree,” Buffy said, as Sam stood woozily.

Sam, now standing head and shoulders above everyone but Xander, put a hand to the back of his head. He blinked a few times, then he whirled to face Buffy. “You! You threw me against the tree!”

“ _You_ tried to shoot me!” Buffy shot back.

Sam winced at her loud tone. “Yeah, okay. Fair enough.”

“Sam and Dean who?” demanded Giles suddenly. He moved closer and looked at Dean’s face as if he could read his whole life there.

Dean leaned back. “Who wants to know?”

“I do,” Giles said, sharply.

“Wow, very informative,” Dean said, “thanks.”

“Winchester,” groaned Sam. “Our name’s Winchester. We’re brothers.”

“Sam,” hissed Dean, with a glare.

“Sorry,” Sam said. “I…think I have a concussion.”

At the name ‘Winchester’, Giles’s whole body tightened, his spine lengthened, and his shoulders rose. He grabbed Sam by the arm and marched him out of the woods. “We’re taking you to hospital immediately,” he said, and then barked out, “Willow, Xander, run ahead and use the payphone at the first campsite to call Miss Calendar. She’ll still be at the school. We will need her expertise on this case.” He looked back at Dean and Buffy. “You two: come with me and try not to kill one another, please. We must get your brother some medical attention.”

“Giles,” Buffy said, in amazement, “what’s gotten into you? Why do you care about these weirdos all of a sudden?”

“You brain me with a tree, but we’re the weirdos,” Sam muttered, dizzily.

“I can’t explain out here in the open, Buffy,” Giles said, “but I will explain. Later. After the emergency room visit.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Boys Are Back in Town! Or, um, they came to town...  
> Look for the hyperlinks buried in the text! If you're a dork like me, you'll find them worth your click.


	3. It's All Fun and Games Until Someone Gets A Concussion

 

2.

 

            It turned out that Sam had a minor concussion, which was nothing the younger Winchester had not handled before with barely a shrug of indifference. Sam hardly tolerated the ER visit. He bolted as soon as Dean had paid for the medical attention with one of many fraudulent credit cards. Before the brothers could make it to the parking lot, Buffy and Giles intercepted them. “I would appreciate it if the two of you would come to our, er, headquarters for a visit,” Giles said, hurriedly, as the Winchesters looked ready to cut and run out of the hospital.

            “Headquarters?” asked Sam.

            Giles looked embarrassed. “Yes, well, when I say headquarters I mean the Sunnydale High School library.”

            “Your headquarters is a library,” Dean said. “Wow, Sam, I think we found your soulmate.”

            “Shut up,” Sam said, half-heartedly. He had an ice pack on the back of his head and he still looked a little off-center.

            “Look,” Buffy said, taking control of the conversation, “we all want to figure out what’s been going on at the park and what’s been taking these kids—“

            “Not taking,” Dean corrected her, “sacrificing.”

            “Yeah, that,” Buffy said. “We all want to know what’s going on. So, why not pool our resources? We can cover more ground that way.”

            Sam looked at Dean, who twisted his lips into a thoughtful pout. “We don’t even know who you people are,” he finally said, blunt but not hostile. “And you might be real nice folks, but Sam and I have learned not to take candy from strangers.”

            “A wise and seasoned perspective,” Giles said, nodding, “especially in your chosen profession. However, I can assure you, if you’ll accompany us back to the library, we can explain ourselves. We can explain—“ he glanced at his teenage charge, “Buffy.”

            Buffy looked annoyed. “You don’t have to make me sound like I’m a freak of nature, Giles.”

            “You kind of are,” Dean said. “Sorry.”

            “Don’t make me give you a concussion, too, wise guy.”

            “Violence doesn’t solve every problem,” Sam said, irritably. “What are you, Dirty Harry? Geez.”

            “You seemed pretty ready to blow my head off back there in the park,” Buffy said.

            “Enough,” Giles sighed, and the two stopped grousing. “Dean, will you come to the library or not?”

            Dean considered the notion for another minute, then he nodded. “Sure. But only if you’ve got something to eat. We were out in the park all day, and I’m starving.”

            The Winchesters followed Giles’s little car with their own sleek, black Impala. Giles would have been lying if he said he didn’t envy Dean for his stylishly imposing vehicle. Buffy kept her eyes on it all the way back to Sunnydale High. When the cars pulled up beside one another in the parking lot, she jumped out and strode over to the Impala. “This is a pretty cool car,” she said, as Dean stepped out of the driver’s side.

            Dean smiled secretively. “Wait until I can show you the trunk. That’s the fun part.”

            “What’s in the trunk?” asked Buffy, but Dean shook his head and followed Giles into the school.

            The corridors were deserted except for the occasional band member or athlete running an errand during a practice session. When they reached the library, Xander, Willow, and Jenny Calendar waited inside. They all stood when the other four came in. Sam and Dean looked around the library, taking in the stacks, the desks, and the metal cage at the far end of the room. “Nice place you got,” Dean said. “But does anyone actually believe this is a school library?”

            The Sunnydale group gave one another uncertain looks. Giles cleared his throat and ran up the steps which led to the library’s sub-second story. He reached behind a set of encyclopedias and brought out a stack of books as tall as his chest. “These here are the books I own which pertain to human sacrifice in its many forms,” he said, as he carried the books back to one of the desks. “They’re as good a place to start as any, I suppose.”

            Sam’s eyes went wide and he sat down in the chair on the other side of the desk. He touched the top book’s cover with a gentle finger. “These are incredibly rare,” he said, in a voice choked with an emotion Giles knew well: book rapture.

            “They’ve been passed down for generations, from one watcher to another,” Giles explained. At Sam’s hesitant touch, he urged, “Please, examine them. Goodness knows I’m the only one around here with any sort of appreciation for them.”

            Sam needed no further urging: he seized the top book and flipped it open, then put the book to his nose and inhaled delicately. Buffy, Xander, and Dean all stared at him like he had lost his mind, but Giles, Willow, and Miss Calendar only smiled knowingly. “So, anyway,” Dean said, turning back to the others, “do you mind telling me who you are and how you know anything about human sacrifices?”

            Buffy took the initiative. “Well, for starters, I’m Buffy Summers, and I’m the slayer.”

            “’The Slayer’?” Dean repeated, without recognition. “So, you’re the vampire slayer in this group?”

            “No,” Buffy said, “I’m _The_ Slayer.” When Dean continued to stare at her in confusion, she looked to Giles for support. “He doesn’t know. He knows about vampires and human sacrifices, but he doesn’t know about _The_ Slayer.”

            Giles adjusted his glasses and said, importantly, “You see, Dean, Buffy is The Slayer of her generation, The Chosen One. She alone will wield the strength and skill to fight the vampires, demons, and the forces of darkness; to stop the spread of their evil and the swell—“

            “Wait, wait, wait,” Dean said, holding up a hand. “No, she’s not. She’s not the only one who can fight the forces of darkness. Hunters do it all the time. And what about priests and psychics?”

            Thrown off his groove, Giles blinked owlishly. “Pardon?”

            “Buffy’s not the only person who’s shanking vampires and monsters out here,” Dean said. “I mean, that’s what me and Sam do. Right, Sam?”

            “Can’t talk,” Sam said, still inhaling the smell of old books, “having a moment.”

            “Take your time,” Giles said, accommodatingly.

            “So we’re supposed to believe that you fight supernatural baddies all the time, but you’ve never heard the legends of The Slayer?” Xander broke in. “That’s like if you’re an A-list actor and you’ve never heard of Clark Gable.”

            “I’ve heard of her,” Sam said, finally breaking away from his book worship.

            Dean’s mouth opened and closed, then he said, “What?”

            “I’ve heard of The Slayer,” Sam insisted. “She’s in Dad’s book, Dean. And she’s in about twenty other modern hunters’ accounts of cold cases where the monster’s trail disappeared. All the stories end with something along the lines of, ‘I guess The Slayer got to that vamp first, the self-righteous bee-otch.’”

            “Hey!” Buffy said, indignantly. “I am not self-righteous. And I’ve never met any hunters before you guys.”

            “Undoubtedly, those men were talking about the slayer before you,” Giles said, smoothly.

            “She is not in Dad’s book,” Dean said.

            “She so is. Page forty-seven, that weird little half-page that’s actually a napkin from [Steak-n-Shake](http://i.ebayimg.com/images/g/bPwAAOSwbqpTsEax/s-l300.jpg).”

            “She’s not in there.” Dean reached into his jacket and pulled out a squat, stuffed leather journal. Giles inched forward curiously as Dean flipped through the pages, landing on a folded up napkin tucked in amongst the full-sized papers. He read silently for a moment, then shut the book with a snap. “Huh. There is something about a chick called The Slayer.”

            “Like I said,” Sam said, sassily. He had gone back to touching Giles’s rare books, turning their pages like one might pet the wings of a butterfly. “If Buffy is The Slayer, she’s been chosen to guard what’s known as a Hellmouth, a center of malicious paranormal activity.”

            “ _Sunnydale_ is a Hellmouth?” Dean asked. “Wow, that explains so much. And here we were just checking out a human sacrifice gig.”

            “You know about Hellmouths?” Xander asked. “Okay, what is a hunter and how do you know all this crap? I thought only geeks like Giles knew this stuff.”

            “Oh,” Willow said, and raised a hand like she was in class.

            “What, Willow?”

            “I know about hunters,” Willow said, eagerly. “They’re so cool!” Dean seemed to preen a little in the wake of Willow’s compliment. “And really brave!” Willow continued. “Also, probably insane, but we all have our problems, right?”

            “Hunters do tend to lead reckless lives due to the very nature of their work, yes,” Giles said. “It does give the illusion of insanity.”

            “I’m not crazy,” said, Dean, now mightily offended. Willow flushed under his censorious gaze.

            “Wow, that is so debatable,” Sam muttered.

            “But what do you do?” asked Xander, scowling at the way Willow blushed at the elder Winchester’s glare. “I mean, what does a hunter do?”

            “We find evil things, we roast ‘em,” Dean said. “That’s pretty much it.”

            Giles smiled. “Well, it’s a little more complicated than that, Dean. Don’t sell the profession short. Hunters are mortal men—er, and women—who devote their lives to fighting those supernatural beings who inhabit parts of the world other than Hellmouths. The Slayer hunts vampires, primarily, and whatever dark creatures are attracted to the Hellmouth. Hunters perform the same job, only hunters do it at greater risk to themselves, since they have no superhuman strength like Buffy does.”

            “Couldn’t have put it better myself, Giles,” said Dean. “Now, you got any grub? We can talk shop all day after I eat.”

            “The cafeteria is closed, but I’ll hit the vending machine,” volunteered Willow. “Um, does anyone have any quarters?”

            Sam tore himself away from the rare books long enough to fish some dollars out of his pocket. He handed them to Willow with a smile. “Thanks—what’s your name, again?”

            “Willow,” the teenager answered, blushing again.

            “Thanks, Willow.”

            Xander cleared his throat and said, “Hey, Will, bring me a Coke, will ya?”

            “Sure, Xander! Vanilla Coke, just like you like it!” Willow skipped away, her knee-length skirt swishing behind her. Xander looked mollified. Dean snickered, but he hid it in his hand when Xander glared at him.

             “There’s so much information in just this one book,” Sam said at length. Giles went over and sat across from him at the desk. Sam turned the book around and slid it over to the watcher. “Based on the rituals in this chapter, it looks like this particular brand of human sacrifice could be tied to a couple of pagan religions.” He frowned down at the book. “Only, I’m pretty sure most of these religions died off about a thousand years ago.”

            “How can you narrow it down so quickly?” asked Buffy. Now that her annoyance at being jumped by the Winchesters had faded, she went back to business. “I mean, me and Giles only saw those tracks all around the clearing, some evidence of bonfires, and that whiskey bottle full of blood. That’s not exactly a lot to go on.”

            “It is if you know what to look for,” Sam countered. He reached into his own jacket and pulled out a packet of photocopied papers. “I did some research of my own before we got to town, and what I learned based on the way the boys disappeared helped me rule out a couple things like demons, dark witches, and cannibalistic demon worshippers. And, of course, the evidence of human involvement rules out something like a tree spirit or a will-o-the-wisp.”

            “Oh, of course,” Xander said, deadpan. “It’s plainer than the nose on my face.”

            “It’s like Giles Two-Point-Oh,” Buffy said. “Only with better muscles. And no British accent.”

            Giles and Sam ignored the commentary. “Let’s begin like all the great detectives do, and put together our clues systematically,” Giles said. He stood and went to the inner part of the library, coming back with a poster board, markers, thumbtacks, and string. “Let’s make copies of the relevant information and make a case board.”

            “Where did all those craft supplies come from?” Miss Calendar demanded. “You’ve never used those before to figure out what you were fighting.”

            “Well, I just got the idea from a true crime show on television last night,” Giles admitted, sheepishly. “But I’m certain it will be useful. That way we can sort out the good leads from the hogwash.” Together, Sam, Giles, and Miss Calendar started copying the excerpts from the newspapers and rare books Giles had compiled. Buffy and Dean mutually agreed to take care of taping the poster board to an inconspicuous spot on the back of one of the library shelves.

            Willow came back through the main library doors, sodas and shrink-wrapped bags in her hands. “Behold, I come bringing snacks!”

            Dean perked up. He helped Willow with the food before she dropped half of it on the floor. He took a can of soda and a bag of chips for himself, then he left the rest for the others. Sam absent-mindedly took whatever was handed to him as he and Giles sorted the copies they had made. Miss Calendar took one candy bar and nothing else, and she ate it meticulously to avoid getting chocolate on any of the copies. Xander took the vanilla Coke Willow had gotten for him along with two bags of chips and a candy bar. He wolfed down one bag before he even sat down.

            After everyone had their snacks, Buffy sat down with her sparkling water and packet of trail mix and said, “All right, Detective Giles, let’s break down this case into words we all understand. Not all of us have gone to college to get more knowledge.”

            Giles stood before the poster board like a teacher in front of his class. “All right, here’s what Sam, Jenny, and I have put together through our combined expertise on lore: these missing boys were all between the ages of fourteen and fifteen. Each had a history of good grades in school, and each was at the park for some sort of gathering—a party, or just to spend time with friends—“

            “A hangout,” Buffy supplied.

            “Exactly,” Giles said. “And each boy went missing from this—hangout—with none of his friends the wiser, if the police reports are accurate. Based upon when the missing person reports were filed, we can assume that each boy went missing in the late night, between ten and twelve o’clock.”

            “And they just vanished, without a trace?” Buffy asked.

            “Presumably,” Giles said. “Well, that’s what I’d hoped; that the lack of physical evidence pointed toward abduction rather than murder. But the whiskey bottle and the bonfires say otherwise, don’t they?”

            “Couldn’t that ritual be something unrelated to the missing boys?” asked Miss Calendar.

            “It’s possible, but unlikely,” Sam said, as he fixed pictures of the missing boys to the poster board. “Since they all went missing from that same park, the worshippers probably took the kids and dragged them to that clearing.”

            “What a way to go. You go out to party with your friends and end up getting butchered by a cult,” Buffy said, with a shudder.

            “They’re just kids,” Willow said, dismally. “Who would kill three kids and use them as human sacrifices?”

            “These sickos, apparently,” Dean said, with all the sympathy of a psychopath. “Hate to say it, Willow, but the world’s full of nutjobs like this.”

            “That’s real comforting, man,” Xander said, as he chugged his Coke.

            “Sugar-coating the truth doesn’t make it any easier to swallow, kid,” Dean said. “Monsters are bad enough, but humans who become monsters are worse.”

            “Humans, monsters, it doesn’t make a difference in this case,” Buffy said. “We’ve got to stop these rituals, preferably before another fourteen year-old gets murdered.”

            Miss Calendar sat a moment in thought, playing with the ends of her short black hair. Giles watched her think, then said, “Have you any input, Jenny? Rituals of a more pagan nature are more your specialty than mine.”

            “I think I do,” Miss Calendar said, slowly. She went to the library counter and ripped the month of March from the desktop calendar. She circled the upcoming Saturday with a marker, then she walked to the poster board and stuck the paper in the middle. “These abductions started three days ago, on Sunday. The spring equinox is six days from the night of the first murder. Six is a significant number in many religions. I don’t think the number of days between now and the equinox is a coincidence.”

            “So, whatever freaky cult-y pagan thing these people are doing, it’s tied to the equinox somehow?” asked Dean.

            “Traditionally, the equinox is honored by many pagans,” Miss Calendar said. “It’s a symbol of balance, of finding harmony in the chaos of life. It’s also seen as a day when light and dark are perfectly equal, and not just in the cosmos, but on earth. Some new-agers also see it as a time of resurrection.”

            “But what pagans see it as a time to perform human sacrifice?” Willow asked. “Because that doesn’t seem very balanced or harmonic to me.”

            “I haven’t gotten that far, yet,” Miss Calendar said, with an apologetic shrug.

            “Good heavens,” Giles exclaimed suddenly. “It’s almost eight o’clock. Buffy, Xander, Willow: you need to go home. We’ll continue this investigation tomorrow.”

            Xander’s eyes widened. “Crap. I still have to do that literature assignment. Guess who’s gonna need the CliffsNotes tonight.”

            “Looks like I’m going to get grounded…again,” Buffy said, resigned.

            “I told my dad I was going to the library to study,” Willow said. “You guys really need to start using that excuse on a daily basis like I do.”

            Xander and Buffy both snorted. “Your dad only believes that story because it’s in the realm of possibility for you, Willow,” Buffy said. “Our parents? Not so much.”

            “They’d be more likely to believe me and Buffy were lighting up some cigarettes behind the gym and drinking some form of strong alcohol while making out,” Xander said. “Um, not that we would. Smoke. Or drink. Or make out. Ever.”

            “Smooth, kid,” Dean said. “Real smooth.”

            “You want to give me a ride home in that cool car of yours?” Buffy asked Dean. “Giles has to take Xander and Willow, and I’m in way less danger of being murdered than either of them if you guys turn out to be serial killers or something.”

            “Buffy,” Giles said, warningly.

            “It’ll be fine, Giles,” Buffy said, dismissively. She grabbed her backpack from the library floor, put on her light jacket and stood waiting in the middle of the library. “Well, come on, Winchester, I ain’t got all night.”

            “Oookay,” Dean said, with a wary look at Giles.

            “Do as Buffy asks, I suppose,” Giles said. “But if you try to harm her, please be aware that I know how to kill monsters, and I can think of at least sixty different ways to do the same to you.”

            “I get the picture,” Dean said, holding up his hands. “It’s not like I offered to drive her home, anyway. She kind of made an executive decision.”

            “That’s Buffy for you,” Xander said, sourly. “And what Giles said? The same goes for me.” When he got a raised eyebrow in reply, he said, “Okay, I admit, it’s a lot less intimidating when I say it, but the sentiment is still there.”

            “Whatever.” Dean pulled his keys out of his pocket and twirled them around one finger. “Are you coming or what, Princess? I ain’t got all night.” Buffy joined him on his way out of the library. Dean turned and asked Sam, “Why don’t you come and save me a trip between here and our hotel?”

            “I’m going to stay here and do some more digging on the equinox,” Sam said, indicating the plethora of books at his disposal. “If it’s all right with you, Giles,” he added.

            Giles was quick to reply. “Oh, yes, yes, please, contribute to the pool of knowledge,” the watcher said, tripping over words in his eagerness. “I’ll be here, as well, doing the same. Do you object to Gilbert and Sullivan?”

            “No,” Sam said, blinking.

            “Good. I play old recordings of comedic operas while I research, sometimes. It helps me think.”

            “And on that embarrassingly nerdy note,” Dean said, “goodbye. You coming, Summers?” He left the library with Buffy beside him.

            When they were situated in the Impala on the way to Buffy’s house, Buffy said, “Giles and your brother are going to get along great. They’re both book-smart, they’re both into research. We’ll probably find them both sipping tea and talking about Shakespeare the next time we see them.”

            Dean laughed. “Sam’s a dork, but he’s not that kind of dork. Not unless the tea’s got some brandy in it. But I think he’s really missed Stanford more than he realizes. Giles is just letting Sam’s inner bookworm go a little crazy.”

            “Stanford?” Buffy said, in disbelief. “Your brother went to Stanford? The real Stanford?”

            Dean frowned. “What other Stanford is there? And yeah, he did. Is that so hard to believe?”

            Realizing how her question sounded, Buffy said, “I didn’t mean it like that, like I couldn’t believe it. That’s just really impressive, you know? He must be really, really smart.”

            “He has his moments,” Dean said, casually, but Buffy could hear the pride in the older brother’s voice.

            As the Impala pulled up beside her house, Buffy said, “We gotta have those smart people. I’m The Slayer, but I’m not Harvard material. I need my brainy backup.” She opened the passenger door and climbed out. “See you tomorrow after school. Come back to the library around two o’clock.”

            “Yes, Your Majesty,” Dean said, with a sarcastic bow. “I live to serve the one and only Slayer.”

            “Get off my property,” Buffy said, and waved goodbye as the car backed up and pulled away from the curb.

            Dean drove through the sleepy town. He decided to go back to the hotel to order some real food and wait for Sam to call him when he had his fill of books. The drive through Sunnydale was largely uneventful. If he hadn’t known better, he would have said that the small town was one of the nicest he’d seen. Looking at it through his windshield on such a still, peaceful night, if he hadn’t already known he would never have guessed that beneath the quiet streets lay a Hellmouth, a gateway to evil. But as a hard rain started to drop from the skies, Sunnydale better matched Dean’s mental picture of a creepy Hellmouth as the sheets of water changed the scenery into something a little more grim and less goody-two-shoes.

            The hotel was in sight. Dean turned the steering wheel to enter the narrow driveway which led to the hotel parking lot. He didn’t slow down all that much as he prepared to take the corner around the building. He had no time to react when a dark, human figure emerged from the rain and ran across the road right in front of his front fender. With a horrified curse, Dean slammed on the brakes, but the car still connected with the man in the road. With a loud thump, the man flew several feet backwards and landed sprawled out on the street.

            Horrified, Dean burst from the Impala and ran towards the man he’d accidentally hit. He stopped dead in his tracks when, with a muttered expletive, the man got to his hands and knees and then stood shakily. “What the—“ Dean said, staring in disbelief.

            The man shook his hair out of his eyes, but the rain plastered it down his face. “Nice car,” he said, with a small groan. “I don’t fancy seeing it that up close again, though. There’s appreciation, and then there’s too much of a good thing.”

            Dean was a little too busy picking his jaw up off the ground to notice the man’s snark. To put it simply, the eldest Winchester had never seen a more beautiful man in his entire life.             Even a man as straight as Dean couldn’t help but notice, and be instantly jealous and disconcertingly interested. The man stood about the same height as Dean, but even in the rain, his dark hair, striking features, and pale grey eyes made the wet clothes he wore look like a hokey Calvin Klein advertisement. The ridiculous beauty served to send up warning bells in Dean’s head.

            And there was also the fact that this dude had just been hit by a car and he had shrugged it off like it was a love tap. Faster than conscious thought, Dean pulled the gun from his side holster that he’d re-attached after his run-in with Buffy. He didn’t draw it on the man, but he held it ready at his side.

            “No way you’re human,” Dean said, and then figured that might not have been the smartest way to approach this predicament.

            The man gave Dean a closer look, not at all concerned by the sudden appearance of a weapon. “Do I know you? I think I know you.”

            “Dude,” Dean said, “I’m pretty sure I would remember your face.”

            Their bizarre meet-and-greet was ruptured by a deep, easy-going voice. “Hey, good news! The hotel’s got one more vacancy. Plus, they’re only going to charge us the regular fee!” The owner of the voice, an even taller man who wore a long, leather duster, came around the side of the hotel. He froze as he took in Dean, the gun, the car, and the beautiful man, and said, “Well, this is awkward.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

In the abandoned warehouse across town, Drusilla fretted with the long piece of barbed wire she had found and had begun to wrap around her struggling victim. The man she’d caught for her dinner-and-a-show was pretty, like the boys who had shown up in her recent visions. The one boy had such lovely green eyes, her pretty man, and he was so bright, he hurt her inner eyes. This man tied to the warehouse support strut was a pale imitation of that boy. He didn’t shine, but he smelled so nice, like sweat and fear. “No wiggling, pretty,” Dru cooed, as the man gave another cry of terror. “Nasty nasty barbed wire won’t like that, will it?”

            Another vision struck her, and it made her drop the barbed wire and grab her forehead. Drusilla whimpered, then she screamed aloud, tripping over her long dress. In a second, Spike was beside her, guiding her away from her dinner, putting his mouth to her ear. “What is it now, Dru? Those little hunters irritating you again?”

            “No,” Drusilla said, anguished, “there’s more, Spike! Why do they all keep coming here? Now there’s a good witch and a kindly wolf…”

            “Those hippie human sacrifice whack jobs keep drawing in the wrong kind of people,” Spike said, with gritted teeth.

“They scratch my eyes—my inner eyes—I’ll take _their_ eyes, instead—“

            “That’s the spirit, duck. You still don’t know where the little girl scouts are?”

            “Something’s protecting them,” groaned Dru, frustrated beyond words. “The glowing thing—the angry angel—he’s got Green Eyes all wrapped up in light. I hate him, Spike!”

            “Nobody likes a busybody, Dru,” Spike said. “It’s perfectly natural to hate him. But he can’t protect them all forever. Even angels have to take a cat nap here and there. We’ll bide our time, and then—“ he nipped her neck, and Drusilla sighed in pleasure. “Then, we’ll take them all, one by one, and they’ll wish they’d never heard of Sunnydale.”

            As abruptly as it had arrived, Drusilla’s anxiety left. She hummed in delight and let Spike stroke her arms. “We’ll be famous for killing those men,” she said, excitedly.

            “We’ll be superstars of the underworld, love.”

            “Please,” Drusilla’s dinner said, suddenly and hysterically, “please, let me go!”

            Spike growled. “Dru, your hot little piece ruined our moment.”

            “He’s a bad boy,” Dru said. She turned and went back to wrapping the barbed wire around the man’s chest. “Got to finish my practice run,” she explained to her terrified prey. “You’re my tester, see. Got to make it perfect for my Green Eyes and his friends.”

            “No,” whispered Drusilla’s dinner. “No, please, I don’t want to die—“

            “No one wants to die, idiot,” Spike said, scornfully.

            “But die we must, eh?” Drusilla said. Then she smiled prettily, and drew a bone-handled knife from her dress. “D’you like my knife, pretty? It likes you, I think.”

            In the pouring rain, no one heard the screams as they wafted through the warehouse windows.

 

 


	4. Gilbert and Sullivan As Research Aids

Sam and Giles had settled in for a long night of research.

            Giles had indeed put on a pot of tea, and it had taken very little persuasion for Sam to accept the delicate white cups passed his way. He chugged it like he would beer, but Giles didn’t mind. Giles had brewed a good strong black chai blend, his drug of choice when staying up late to read dusty old books. On an out-of-the-way table, a record player that had seen better days played Gilbert and Sullivan’s [‘Pirates of Penzance’](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R1dy44jV8EM) in its entirety. 

            “I am the very model of a modern Major-General,” Giles muttered to himself, as he thumbed through yet another book on the vernal equinox.

            “I think we need go back to the clearing at the park for any real answers,” Sam said at last, pushing himself back from the desk and scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s pointless to keep at this as long as we have no idea why the sacrifices are being performed or what kind of ritual is being used. We can’t stop the murders unless we know the MO.”

            “It certainly seems so,” said Giles. He put a hand to his mouth. “But at the rate these killings are going, a boy is due to be murdered tonight, as well. Perhaps, rather than researching the methods, we should simply crash the party.”

            Sam stood. “That sounds good to me.”

            “Really?” Giles asked. “We shouldn’t wait for backup?”

            “Not if you think we can save that kid before it’s too late if we go now.” Sam went to the storage area and pulled out a machete. “Really? A machete? You guys are even better equipped than we are. But, seriously, what do you kill with a machete?”

            “That particular machete was blessed by the Pope,” Giles said. “So, everything can be killed by that machete.”

            “Oh, it’s a consecrated machete,” Sam said, raising his eyebrows. “Gotcha.” He set the blade aside and started looking through the other assorted implements of destruction. “You got any guns?”

            “Several,” Giles said, a bit dryly. He got up and went to his own private study and opened a locked cabinet. The cabinet was neatly stacked with guns of every size, shape, and make. Sam whistled in appreciation. “I suggest we take a Beretta each,” Giles said, and threw one to Sam. “Unless you prefer Sig Sauer.”

            “I’m not picky,” Sam said. He took the gun and the ammo clip Giles tossed after it, loading the gun with practiced efficiency. “I’m borrowing your holy machete, okay?”

            “Be my guest. I shall make use of the silver dagger set, if you would kindly hand it to me.”

            “Sure.” Sam found the daggers and brought them to his new best friend.

            Giles fastened the knives to his inner coat lining. “I suppose we’ll take my car?”

            “Well, Dean has the Impala, so unless we’re going to walk…”

            Twenty minutes later, the two men parked at the now-deserted Sunnydale Nature Trail Park. They had remembered flashlights before they left the library, and they illuminated the path as they hurried along in the absolute darkness of an unlit park. Sam and Giles were no strangers to risky business, so they stuck close by one another as they traveled down the same dirt path Giles and the teenagers had followed earlier that day. “The clearing is not far from here,” whispered Giles, “assuming they would use the same clearing every time.”

            “Well, they didn’t clean up their mess all that well from last night, so either they think no one’s caught on to their rituals, or they were planning to clean it up tonight, instead,” Sam whispered back.

            A strange noise broke the stillness of the park. From a short distance off, they could hear a song playing. They cocked their heads and listened intently. Someone had started to play ‘Heaven Is a Place on Earth.’ The happy, romantic song blared glaringly into the night from boom box speakers. Sam and Giles gave each other another confused look, then they walked quickly toward the noise. They soon found that [Belinda Carlisle’s tender voice](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NOGEyBeoBGM) issued from the same clearing where the ritual had happened the night before. Soon, they reached the edge of the trees around the clearing. Through the spaces between the many trunks, they could see bonfires burning bright yellow and red, and a flurry of activity as figures danced around them.

            “Stealth is required,” Giles said, very quietly. “Who knows what these people are capable of doing.”

            “You mean, aside from human sacrifice?” asked Sam, as he pulled out his gun.

            “There are worse things than death, Sam,” Giles pointed out, grimly.

            “Stealth it is,” Sam said, and crawled along the forest floor. Giles followed behind him. They stopped just outside the semi-circle of bonfires, lying amidst the foliage of mid-spring. From their low vantage point, it was difficult to see what was going on inside the clearing. Sam craned his neck higher and Giles pushed himself carefully onto his elbows.

The ritual looked like a classic neo-pagan feast: there was a low table in the middle of the clearing which had every kind of food on it, along with a truly impressive amount of alcohol. No doubt, these were the libations devoted to the pagans’ chosen god. Some of the ritual’s participants sat at the table, but it was hard to tell whether they partook of the food or whether they sat there merely for ceremonial purposes. There were other figures inside the bonfire half-circle, dancing wildly in the night, and the strange choice of music was still playing rapturously above the sounds of shrieks and…catcalls?

            “The heck?” Sam muttered. He peered closer at the dancers, then immediately wished he hadn’t.

            Although every figure in the clearing wore a heavy layer of white or blue paint to conceal their identity, it was now glaringly obvious that every single person at the ritual was stark naked, and some of them were past their physical prime. Most of them were Giles’s age. Sam’s eyes grew to the size of teacup saucers. Giles was tempted to make the younger man look away from the appalling sight of so many bare bodies doing…rather indecent things, now to the tune of [‘Slow N’ Easy’ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b9uFNHvDBVg)by Whitesnake.

            While the dancers blissfully lost their minds to a classic rock song, a far more chilling spectacle took place at the front of the clearing. There, a specially-painted man was chanting over a body spread out on a portable plastic card table. From the blood surrounding the body and the long-hilted dagger protruding from the chest, Giles and Sam knew they were too late to save the poor victim. As the chant came to its end, the dancers gave out ecstatic cries and rushed to the makeshift altar, looping their arms and legs around one another--

            “Are they—“ Sam’s voice came out strangled. “Are they…doing what I think they’re doing? At a _ritual sacrifice_? Over a _dead body_?”

            “That…interpersonal action can hardly be misconstrued,” Giles said, thickly. He swallowed. “Oh, dear. I think I might be--” he bent over and choked out the last cup of tea he’d ingested, hoping he was quiet enough to escape the revelers’ notice.

            Sam had already beat him to it and was retching silently into the foliage. When the dry heaves subsided, he pulled out his Beretta pistol. “We’ve got to reclaim that body,” he managed to say, wiping his mouth. “Who knows what they’re going to do to it.”

            “Are you out of your mind?” Giles said, blankly. “They just murdered a human being. They won’t hesitate to kill us both. Besides, they’ve worked themselves up into some sort of frenzy! Look at them!” Reflexively, the two of them looked at the clearing, then just as quickly looked away. “No, don’t look at them,” Giles said, hastily. “Never look at them again.”

            “I’ve got an idea,” Sam said, and before Giles could stop him, he’d run off into the night. A moment later, there was the sound of gunfire at the far end of the clearing. The revelers stopped their ritual with shouts of alarm. Giles caught on to Sam’s plan and readied his own gun, then shot off two bullets into the air.  There were screams and shouts of ‘Cops!’ and the dancers scrambled for cover. The specially-painted man, whom Giles assumed was the priest, took a moment longer to flee, but flee he did. The bonfires were doused with water, the booze was grabbed by the runners. The body was abandoned on the card table altar, the dagger removed by the fleeing priest.

            Finally, the clearing was empty of all life except for the youngest Winchester as he crept past the extinguished bonfires. Giles soon followed him. Together, they approached the altar and its grisly offering.

            The body on the altar was not a boy; it was a young man, perhaps around Sam’s age. Beside him was a nearly-empty bottle of vodka and a blood-letting knife. “No doubt, they were going to fill the bottle with the victim’s blood, as before,” Giles said.

Sam nodded. He seemed a little disturbed that the dead man was college-aged, like himself, but he carried on professionally. “Let’s get him out of here,” he said. “He didn’t deserve this. The least we can do is make sure his corpse isn’t desecrated.”

            “I couldn’t agree more,” Giles said. “But what should we do with him? We can’t return him to his family. We can’t be caught with a dead body in my car.”

            Sam sighed and pulled out a lighter from his jacket. “Well, with this rain starting up, it’s going to be difficult. Grab some of that vodka, Giles.”

            They burned the body using alcohol and kindling. All in all, it was not the way Sam or Giles had wanted to spend the night. They drove back to the library at one o clock in the morning, both too tired and disgusted to talk. They stumbled back into the high school, shuffled to the library, and pushed through the double doors with as little energy as possible.

            The two men drew up short as they were confronted by Dean, who stood with his arms crossed over his chest and a stormy expression on his face. “And where exactly have you two been for the past three hours?” he demanded.

The two researchers walked right past him and fell into the desk chairs. “Went to the clearing,” said Sam. He lifted a hand and waved it, as if that explained his thought process. “Saw the ritual. Yikes.”

“What?” Dean strode over and stood in front of the desk. “Sam, why would you do something so stupid? What if those whackos had seen you two, huh? What would you have done without backup?”

“We managed just fine without it,” Giles said, wearily. He slid his glasses off and rubbed his face. “And based upon the revelers’ level of, uh, dedication to the ritual, I doubt they would have noticed if we had taken off our clothes and started dancing right among them.”

“Take off your—“ Dean shook his head. “Wait, what? What?”

“We definitely know what kind of cult this is,” Sam said.

“Do we ever,” groaned Giles, sliding his face into his hands.

When Dean waited impatiently for more, Sam said, “It’s a sex cult, Dean. What we saw was definitely a fertility rite. A very, very _fertile_ fertility rite.”

            “Oh, great,” said another voice, startling Giles and Sam nearly out of their seats. “A fertility cult. You’ve just got to love those fertility cults.”

            From behind a bookcase stepped a tall man in a black leather duster. He had clear-cut features and a slightly hard-bitten look about him, but his posture was as non-threatening as someone over six feet tall can ever achieve. In his hand, he held a staff carved with many exotic symbols. Dean didn’t jump at this sudden addition to the library, but Giles and Sam stood and faced him defensively.

            “What are you doing in here?” exclaimed Giles. “This is my library!”

            “Yeah, about that,” Dean said. “While you ladies were out shopping, I ran into a couple weirdos at the hotel.”

            “What the—Dean, what is going on?” asked Sam, angrily.

            “’Weirdo’ is an understatement,” Giles said. He eyed the long, carved staff in the tall man’s hand. “I think perhaps ‘very ominous looking man’ might be more appropriate.”

            “I get that a lot,” the man said. Then he stepped down from the upper level of the library and offered a hand to Giles. “You must be Rupert Giles. A little birdie told me you’re the supernatural expert in these here parts.”

            “Oh, well,” stammered Giles, unprepared for the compliment, “I’m not sure that’s entirely true—“ He pulled himself together. “Now, really—I must insist on knowing who you are and what you’re doing here.”

            The tall man grinned and wiggled his outstretched hand. “My name’s Harry Dresden, and I’m a private investigator.”

            Giles gave Harry Dresden the once-over. “Is that so,” he finally said, skeptically.

            “Yep,” Harry said, cheerfully. “Oh, yeah, and I’m a wizard.” He lifted his hand. “Are you going to shake on it or what?”

 


	5. Hark! A Wizard

“You’re _The_ Harry Dresden?”

            Giles still hadn’t shook on it. He was now staring at Harry with a sort of fascinated horror. Harry dropped his hand and held out both arms, like he was modeling his large leather duster. “In the flesh. This ain’t no live broadcast from Chicago.” Being a wizard with considerable power, he stated it without sarcasm.

            “My goodness,” Giles said, faintly. He sank back down into a chair. “Harry Dresden. _The_ Harry Dresden. I’ve heard so--so much about you—it’s quite something to finally meet you, actually—I don’t know what to say—“

            “You’re going to make me blush, Mister Giles,” Dresden said, with an embarrassed smile. “As it happens, I heard about you, too. Not much, what with you being an uber-secret watcher, but word gets around.”

            Giles looked surprised. “Oh, does it?”

            “And I might have had a run-in with one of your old pals,” Harry said, more seriously. “A woman by the name of [Deidre Page](http://buffy.wikia.com/wiki/Diedre_Page).”

            Giles’s whole manner changed. He sat straight in his chair and stared at Harry with a little steel in his eyes. “And?”

            “She told me some things about your little glee club in college.” Harry shrugged. “It’s none of my business, really, but I did put a couple new protection spells on her for about two hundred bucks.”

            Giles remained wary, but he nodded. “That was very kind of you.”

            “Not really,” Harry said. “I needed the cash. My dog can eat that much money in food in about a month.”

            “All the same, it was quite brave. But that’s nothing unusual for you, given your reputation.”

            “Come on, now,” Harry said, with an awkward laugh. “Keep it up and I’m going to think you want to go out for dinner and a movie sometime.”

            “Harry?” Sam spoke up at last. He turned to Dean. “This is Harry? Our Harry?”

            “The one and only,” Dean said, with a grin. “I knew you’d be surprised.”

            “Of course I am,” Sam said, with an answering grin. He stood and grabbed Harry, giving him an uncharacteristically affectionate hug. “Where have you been, man? We haven’t seen you since—what—“

            “Since I was sixteen,” Harry said, as he returned the hug. With their matching towering heights, the two men looked like a couple of yetis meeting for the first time. “You think you’re in shock,” the wizard went on, “at least I was a third of the way through puberty by the time you met me! You were eight the last time I saw you, Sammy.”

            Sam winced. “It’s just Sam now, Harry.”

            “Whatever, kid. My brain is still trying to reconcile this—“ Harry gestured to Sam’s height and stature, “with the little boy who was really proud of the fact that he could spell ‘onomatopoeia’ without any hints.”

            “You know each other?” asked Giles, redundantly.

            “Harry met our dad once on a hunt,” Dean explained, as Sam and Harry broke apart, still grinning. “He watched us a few times when Dad thought the threat from the monster he was gunning for was just a little too high.”

            “Simpler times,” Harry said.

            “You can say that again, dude,” Sam said, with a huff.

            “How did you stumble upon the Winchesters in a suburban town such as this?” asked Giles. He had slumped down in his chair again, his attentiveness exhausted.

            “We weren’t actually looking for the kids when we got here,” Harry said. “That was just a weird, crazy coincidence that we were staying at the same hotel. Still, it’s not all that surprising. You are your father’s sons. You’re keeping up the family business.”

            Giles noticed the way Sam’s shoulders twitched a bit at the wizard’s last statement, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he said, “Well, why are you in Sunnydale at all? I mean, it’s terribly far from Chicago.”

            “Um,” Harry’s expression turned sheepish, “the car broke down. It happens when I come around machinery or technology for any length of time.”

            “You, one of the most powerful wizards in the country, landed on the Hellmouth because of car trouble,” Giles summarized, flatly. Then he rubbed his face. “I feel as if I could sleep for several days uninterrupted.”

            “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Harry said, suddenly taller and more alert, “Sunnydale is a _Hellmouth_?”

            “I know, right?” Dean said. “Who knew?”

            “You didn’t mention this at all when you told me about the human sacrifices,” Harry scolded Dean. “That was kind of an important fact, Dean.”

            “I was only telling you about the sacrifices to kill time---um, pun not intended,” Dean said. “I didn’t expect you to care this much. Heck, I didn’t think you’d even want to come to the library with me!”

            Harry slapped a hand to his forehead. “Oh, this explains so much. Thomas knew there was something wrong with this town! I should trust his bad vibes.”

            Sam raised an eyebrow. “Thomas?”

            “Who’s Thomas, your boyfriend?” Dean asked, with a wicked smile.

            Harry shuddered. “Oh, gosh, no. Thomas is...” He took a moment to think, “an acquaintance of mine. He’s back at the hotel, trying to make sense of the mangled remains of his hideously expensive car.”

            “You didn’t even wreck your own car?” Dean said. “That’s low.”

            “Believe me, I didn’t do it on purpose. We brought Thomas’s car purely because we needed a reliable engine. I was supposed to be back in Chicago yesterday, and now I’m here, on a freakin’ Hellmouth, apparently.” Harry shook his head. “That’s just great.”

            “Not to be a jerk,” Sam said, “but it is. Great, I mean. We haven’t seen you in fifteen years, and suddenly we meet during a case that is totally appalling.” The younger Winchester leaned forward earnestly. “Honestly, Harry, this whole fertility cult thing is starting to freak me out. Those people were having sex over a corpse. That’s messed up on all kinds of levels. I would rather let someone else have this one.”

            “Now, Sam,” Giles said, “just because we made an ill-fated decision, that doesn’t mean we can abandon this case. As you said before, we can’t leave these young men to die.” He turned green, but he pressed on. “It would be almost as wrong as killing them, to leave them to those psychopathic deviants.”

            Harry had walked over to Giles’s case board to study its contents. “So, we’re talking a hardcore fertility cult, complete with sacrificial rites.”

            “Four murders so far, in as many days,” Sam said.

            “No doubt leading up to the equinox,” Harry supplied. “That’s fairly typical of this kind of neo-pagan worship.” He laid a finger on one of the news articles. “They’re sacrificing teenagers?”

            “Teenage boys, yes,” Giles said. “I must admit, I am a little baffled as to the significance of the victims’ gender. Aren’t girls the usual, er, item on the menu?”

            “Yeah,” Harry said, “that’s the tradition.” He frowned. “Unless…”

            The pause dragged on long enough for Giles to prompt the wizard, “Unless?”

            “Unless the god they worship is female,” Harry said. “I haven’t met too many goddesses, but the ones I have met would probably be a little insulted if their patrons served up some fresh girl for their tribute.” He leaned away from the board. “Well, you know, with the exception of a couple African and Norse gods, most fertility gods are female.”

            “Yes, of course,” Giles sighed. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

            “That’s why Harry gets paid the big bucks,” Dean said. “All that magical edu-muh-kay-shun he has comes in handy.”

            Harry had moved on to the desk where Sam and Giles had conducted most of their research. He touched the rare books in the same gentle way that Sam had used, but he flipped through them nevertheless. “So you guys wouldn’t mind if I stuck around and helped you with this case?”

            “That would be awesome!” Dean said. His face lit up with genuine excitement at Harry’s offer.

            “Do you have the time?” Giles asked, considerately. “You said you were needed back in Chicago…”

            “I have no idea how long it’s going to take to get Thomas’s ride fixed,” Harry said. “I might as well do something useful while I wait.” His eyes lit up as he looked at the Winchesters. “Besides, I haven’t had the chance to see these two pups in action yet. I’ve got to make sure they’re living up to John’s hilariously overblown pride.”

            Sam ruined the moment by yawning loudly. “Sorry,” he said, through the yawn. “I’m beat.”

            “I suggest we take this matter up in the morning,” Giles said, with a matching yawn.

            “But I just got here,” Harry complained.

            Giles stood. “Feel free to stay and look over our research. I’ll even give you a key to close the building once you’re done. I, however, had a hellish night whose images shan’t leave me for some time. I’m going to get some sleep.” He went to his study and gathered his personal belongings. “It was lovely to meet you, Mister Dresden. I’ll see you in the morning.”

            “Nice to meet you, too, Giles,” Harry said. “I’ll take that key, if you don’t mind.”

            “I’ll stay with Harry and see if I can’t beat some sense out of these facts,” Dean said.

            Sam groaned. “Really, Dean? I need a shower. And some bleach, to wash out my eyes.”

            “You’re welcome to come with me for a few hours’ rest, Sam,” Giles offered, unexpectedly. “I have a comfortable couch, and a shower, of course.” As Sam hesitated, he added, “Also, my house is protected by ancient sigils. And I have several crucifixes left in strategic places.”

            “Good enough for me,” Sam said. “Lead the way, Giles.”

            The two researchers left in short order. Dean stared after them in consternation. “Giles is going to steal my little brother,” he told Harry. “He better not be some demon in disguise. That’s going to be awkward to explain when I roast ‘im.”

            Harry could hear Dean’s concern in his voice. “You never could stop worrying about Sam,” he said, and clapped the younger man on his shoulder. “Come on, kid. Stop fretting over your brother who’s taller, smarter, and stronger than you. Get back to work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So: the pieces are coming together on the chess board. But not in the usual fanfiction way...there's still time for that little bit of crack, my friends. Give it time.


	6. A Chick Flick Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anyone in the mood for a little angst?

Sam Winchester was the most polite houseguest Giles had ever known. He went through a night-time ritual like a soldier; he spent a bare two minutes in the shower, he brushed his teeth with frightening efficiency, and he rolled his gangly limbs into Giles’s too-short couch without a hint of dissatisfaction. He even mumbled a sleepy ‘Thanks, Giles’ before slipping into a dead-to-the-world sleep that Giles himself envied. Giles stood for a while longer in his living room, watching the younger man’s still figure.

            Giles knew John Winchester. He didn’t know him well, but given the hunter’s disposition, Giles doubted if anyone could claim that dubious privilege. No one really knew John Winchester except for the two sons that were the hunter’s entire world. And now, lying on Giles’s very couch, was the youngest Winchester boy.

            John had once blown through a town that Giles himself had visited with two other colleagues and had ruined their ghost hunt by sending the troubled spirit back to the afterlife with the same economy that he did everything. John had come, banished the spirit, burned the corpse, and then went to eat at the famous local restaurant in less than twenty-four hours, before Giles and company could even think to stop him. No matter how annoyed he had been, Giles had been impressed by—and somewhat apprehensive of—such a prodigious hunter.

            Sam seemed just as ruthlessly efficient as his father, Giles mused, but the younger son’s spirit seemed kinder. He leaned more toward the watcher’s ways of learning and defense, not the slayer’s ways of hounding and destruction. In another life, with a different father, Sam might have taken Giles’s place at the side of some chosen one.

            It was no use speculating. Giles yawned and turned to go to bed when there came a gasp from the couch. The gasp turned into a word, garbled by sleep. “Sam?” Giles asked, quietly. “Are you awake?”

            There wasn’t an answer, but Sam’s breathing grew loud and panicked in the silence of the house. Giles spun around and went to the couch. Sam had flipped over onto his back, and his face twisted with the emotions of some dream. Based upon the sheen of sweat and his pained words, Giles knew the dream was a nightmare. “Sam,” he said again, more urgently. “Sam, wake up.” He put a hand on Sam’s shoulder and shook him lightly.

            “Jess!” screamed Sam, and the sound went straight through Giles like a bolt of lightning. The younger man started awake and turned wild eyes on Giles. “What—what—Giles?” He turned away and scrubbed furiously at his face. “What are you doing here?”

            Giles swallowed. “I’m so sorry, Sam. You were having a terrible dream. I thought it best to wake you.”

            Sam didn’t answer for a moment, still turned away. Giles had the tact to stand and put some space between them. At length, Sam said, “Sorry. I shouldn’t have stayed here.”

            “How ridiculous,” Giles said, gently. “Don’t apologize for a nightmare. I only hope you’re all right.”

            “I’m fine.” Sam curled back in on himself, his back to Giles. “Go back to sleep, Giles.”

            The older man closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I find myself wide awake, now,” Giles said. “Perhaps a little wine and some bread will settle our stomachs after that horrific ritual. Would you like to join me in the kitchen?” After another long moment, Sam nodded. “I’ve got Pinot Noir, Sauvignon Blanc, and a gloriously cheap Red Zinfandel. Which would you prefer?”

            They went into the kitchen, where Giles busied himself with glasses and bottles and bread. Sam sat at the table and looked like a haunted man. When the early morning snack was ready, Giles sat down and offered a little bit of himself to the young hunter. “When I was very near your own age, I did some things which I regret very deeply, now,” he said, as he sipped at his wine. “They gave me nightmares. They still do. Some things—some parts of yourself—can never be erased, can they? No matter what other things you do in your life, you can’t get rid of that one thing that you wish to God you could change.” Sam clutched the wine glass like it was a lifeline and simply nodded. “Now, it’s absolutely not my affair, whatever happened to inspire such nightmares in a man as young as yourself,” Giles went on, in the same gentle tone. “Given your life, I can only imagine. But I do hope you know that your pain is not an embarrassment. You should never apologize for it. Do you understand, Sam?”

            “Dean would call this a chick-flick moment,” Sam said, thickly.

            “Well, we have the wine, the late night, and a shared gender,” Giles said, humorously. “We’re ninety-percent there, already. But we seem to be lacking the important factor of a romantic interest who has broken your heart and towards whom you feel conflicted emotions.”

            And that, apparently, was the worst thing to say, because Sam started crying.

 

* * *

 

           

Across town, while Giles and Sam sat awake in the kitchen, Thomas Raith was underneath his mint-condition, snow-white Hummer. He lay flat on the ground, staring up at the under-carriage of the industrial-grade vehicle. He had checked and re-checked every belt, plug, gear, and wire, and he had come up empty-handed. But the stupid car still wouldn’t run; the engine would turn over, but that was it. Harry’s wizardly aura had gotten into the machine and wouldn’t leave.

If Thomas didn’t know better than to believe in destiny or fate, he would have assumed that he and Harry were meant to be stranded in Sunnydale for an indeterminate amount of time. His rational side dismissed the thought immediately; there was no such thing as fate, or if there was it didn’t care about him. He supposed that his half-brother was someone who could be considered worthy of having a destiny. So it was possible that he was caught in Harry’s Purpose (with a capital P). But what purpose could Harry possibly have in Sunnydale, California?

Thomas slid out from under the Hummer and wiped grease-stained fingers on his fifteen-hundred dollar jeans. The rain had ruined this pair, anyway, so he might as well use them as rags. He crossed his arms and glared at the Hummer, sitting so innocently in the motel parking lot. “Next time, we’re taking Harry’s car to the poltergeist convention,” Thomas said, under his breath.

“Poltergeist convention?” an English-accented voice said, from right behind Thomas. “Sounds like fun. Why wasn’t I invited?”    

Thomas whirled around and pulled the pocket knife from his back jeans pocket. He faced off with the man who stood across from him so casually. The man was tall, with white-blonde hair and marble-hard features. He stood with his hands in the pockets of his long, black leather coat, and he smirked at Thomas. The smirk was not the friendly sort; Thomas knew a predator when he saw one. Thomas was a predator, himself.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Princess,” the man said. “If I’d wanted to snap your neck, I would have done it already, while you were busy glowering at your car.” The man shrugged. “I don’t blame you for the distraction. It’s a nice car.”

Thomas wasn’t really the sort to bristle at the degrading tone. He had greater self-control than most beings on the planet. He kept the knife in his hand but relaxed into a passive fighting stance. “Is this the part where you say something evil and full of foreshadowing?” he asked.

“If we were in a rubbish television show, that would seem appropriate,” the man said. “But since we’re not, I’m just gonna get to the point: find a way to fix that sweet ride of yours and get as far away from this town as you can.”

Thomas frowned. “There’s an ‘or’ coming, I know it.”

            “Right in one, beautiful,” the man said, with his teeth bared. “This town is ours and we don’t share it with anyone. We also don’t like it when white knights show up in their fancy, expensive cars. It always makes it so awkward when we have to kill them, you know? I’d just rather avoid it.”

            “Yeah, you sound like a real pacifist,” Thomas said. “But you might have jumped the gun on this one—“ He paused. “Sorry, what was your name?”

            “Spike,” the man answered, like the name should mean something to his opponent. When Thomas merely raised a disinterested eyebrow, he huffed as if offended. “Seriously? I’m Spike. THE Spike.”

            “Uh, drawing a blank here.”

            “Really?” Spike demanded. “You’ve never heard of me?”

            “I don’t get out much,” Thomas said.

            “Well, that’s just brilliant,” Spike said, throwing his hands into the air. “I get the one White Court vampire who’s a shut-in. I was all ready for the horrified reaction.”

            “I don’t do horrified all that much. Revolted: yes. Horrified: no.” Thomas casually reached behind him and pulled a small wooden signpost from the median. The sign boldly declared, ‘CARSON FOR SCHOOL BOARD’, and it was quickly pulled off the stake. “Look, Spike, I don’t know what a creature like you is doing in a run-down little town like this, but I guess I should give you a friendly heads-up, too, since you were so nice to do the same for me: Harry Dresden is here, and he likes to put things like you to their eternal rest.”

            “Dresden?” Spike asked. “Bloke from Chicago, likes to blow things up?”

            “The very same.”

            “Ah,” Spike said. “Okay. Well, that does change things.” He paused for a moment, and then he laughed. “Just kidding. It doesn’t change anything.” He leveled a heavy stare at Thomas. “I’ve killed two Slayers. I’m not scared of a charlatan who likes to make things go boom. I’m really not scared of a vampire who likes to play with his food before he eats it, either. And if you and him aren’t out of town by the end of this week, you’ll join the other two boy scouts for a little bonding time on a torture rack.” He chuckled. “Bonding time? Get it? Because you’ll be tied to the…” At Thomas’s withering stare, he sighed. “Never mind.”

            “What other boy scouts?” Thomas questioned.

            “That would be telling, sweetheart.” Spike wheeled on one heel, his coat flying behind him. “Well, there. I’ve said all I needed to say. Take it into account, under consideration, with a grain of salt, whatever it is you do—“ He turned slightly. “Sorry, never caught your name?”

            “Thomas.”

            “Thomas.” Spike’s face screwed up. “Thomas? Somehow, I was expecting ‘Fabio’.” He turned back around. “Anyway, _Thomas_ , you’ve been warned, et cetera, et cetera. In the name of fair play, you’re now fair game. You let your little magician know, too. Out of town by this weekend.”

            “Duly noted,” Thomas said. “Most likely summarily ignored.”

            Spike shrugged as he walked away. “It’s your call, gorgeous. If you’re so keen to lose that lovely face of yours, who am I to stop you? I mean, I’ll probably enjoy it.” Without another word, he stalked into the night.

            Once he was alone, Thomas went back to the hotel room and pulled out his cell phone. After a quick glance into the phone book, he dialed in the number he needed. The phone rang for several seconds until someone picked it up. “Hello?” a man’s voice said, from the other end of the line.

            “Let me speak to Harry, Dean,” Thomas said, evenly.

            “Who is this?” There was a rustle and a smattering of indistinct voices, and then Dean Winchester said, “Hold on, he’s coming.”

            “Thomas?” Harry said. His voice was rough from the late hour and the lack of sleep. “What’s going on?”

            “There’s something wrong with Sunnydale, isn’t there?” Thomas asked.

            Harry hemmed and hawed for a minute, and then he mumbled, “Yeah, it’s a hellmouth.”

            Thomas pinched the bridge of his nose. “A hellmouth. Great.”

            “Can I just ask why you’re calling me at four o’clock in the morning to ask me this, Thomas?”

            “I just got threatened in a vaguely insulting way by some sort of vampire-ish creature who goes by the name of Spike.” Thomas went to the window and looked out. “Besides, it’s not like you’re sleeping.”

            “I’m researching,” Harry said. “There’s some freaky people in Sunnydale, man.”

            “I know. I just met one.”

            “Hold on a minute. Did you say Spike?”

            Thomas lifted his eyebrows even though Harry couldn’t see him. “Yes?”

            “The Spike that murdered _two slayers_? _That_ Spike?”

            “Honestly, I’d never heard of him,” muttered Thomas.

            Harry now sounded fully alert and alarmed. “He’s well-known in wizard circles. The White Council has tried to apprehend him for years, but he keeps escaping on technicalities.”

            “Well, to be fair, so do you.”

            “Thomas, this isn’t a joke. Spike’s not the crazy kind of vampire. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s not going to be a problem for the both of us together, but separately…” There was a pause where Thomas could hear Harry trying to find the right words. “He just doesn’t care, man. He’ll kill you without a second thought. I mean, obviously he has no idea what kind of ramifications that would rain down on his skinny little vampire butt, but still.”

            Thomas sighed. “Harry, I’m the careful one. You’re the man without a plan.”

            “I cannot believe you just said that to me, Thomas. I’m hurt. I’m crushed.”

            “Listen, I didn’t call to talk about myself. If this Spike person is a vampire, he can be killed like any other vampire. I’m not worried about it. I called because he mentioned ‘two other boy scouts’ that he has planned as his weekend entertainment. I can only guess who those two boy scouts are.”

            “Hmmm,” Harry said. In the background, Thomas could hear Dean Winchester talking to Harry. “Yeah, I know exactly what you mean,” Harry said, in a much quieter tone. “Well, Spike just made me infinitely more comfortable with the idea of knocking him off.”

            Thomas tapped the windowsill with one finger. “You have to tell the Winchesters there’s a psychotic vampire out to kill them, little brother.”

            “As if we didn’t have enough to worry about,” Harry groaned. “D’you know there’s a sex cult sacrificing people in Sunnydale’s local park?”

            “I’m pretty sure I saw a movie like that on Pay Per View last night.”

            “When it rains, it freakin’ pours, Thomas.”

            “Well, sleep deprivation isn’t going to solve any problems.” Thomas firmly closed the hotel curtains. He took a pen and carefully drew protection symbols along the bottom of the windowsill. Then he went to his bag, drew out his smaller handgun, and slid it under his pillow. “Get some rest, Harry,” he said, and moved to get ready to do the same. “Goodnight.”

            “Good morning,” Harry corrected him, with false cheer. “See you later!”

            The brothers hung up, one to catch some early morning sleep, another to slog through yet more research on the uplifting subject of fertility rites.

 


	7. Jail Bait and The Gunslinger

The morning after her gang’s run-in with the Winchesters, Buffy got up, went through her usual pre-school routine, and climbed into her mother’s car before she remembered that Giles had discovered human sacrifice in Sunnydale, she had met some truly weird hunters, and she also had a trig test that morning. “Perfect,” Buffy groused, buckling her seatbelt. “I didn’t even study for that stupid test.”

            “What test, dear?” Joyce Summers asked, as she started the engine and pulled out of the driveway.

            “My trig test. I totally forgot about it until two seconds ago.”

            Joyce frowned. “Weren’t you studying for that test last night, at Willow’s house?”

            Buffy’s mind scrambled for purchase. In her exhaustion, she had also forgotten her cover story for last night’s late return. “Did I say it was a trig study session? Um, no, that was for my history test next week,” she lied, wildly.

               “Oh.” There was silence for a few minutes as Joyce drove through the mostly-empty streets towards the high school. “Well, I hope you studied enough trig this past week to make a good grade,” her mother said at last. “You’ve seemed over-tired recently. As a mom I hate to say this, but don’t work too hard, okay, sweetie?”

            Buffy wished she could tell her mother the real reason for her fatigue. Being a slayer was a full-time job that Buffy had to condense into the hours after school, and it took a toll on her. Instead, as the car pulled into the high school parking lot, she smiled and grabbed her backpack. “No worries, Mom. The day I work too hard at school is the day Willow stops being an over-achiever and fails all her classes.”

            Mrs. Summers waved and drove away. Buffy quickly found Willow and Xander waiting for her at the front entrance to the high school. Xander had a disgusted look on his face. “Is it just me, or have all the couples in school been getting really handsy, lately?” he said, as Buffy walked up. “I’ve seen more people sucking faces against lockers in this week alone than I have in my entire high school career. It’s getting a little overpowering.”

            “What are you talking about?” Buffy said, bewildered. In answer, Xander nodded at a pair of sophomores who were currently propped against the front wall of the school, making out in broad daylight. “Oh,” Buffy cringed.

            “Maybe it’s the equinox,” Willow mused. “You know how full moons cause an increase in emergency room visits? Maybe the equinox causes an increase in face suckage.” She took out a little notebook from her backpack and scribbled a quick message inside it. “I’m keeping an equinox log,” she told her friends, even though they weren’t particularly interested. “I’m noting anything that seems to be unusual even for Sunnydale. Then I’m going to categorize the weirdness. Hopefully, it’ll contribute to the general world knowledge about the strange events that happen during the equinox.”

            Xander smirked. “Yeah, Willow, you’ll be recognized for this historic information. Your name will be right next to the guy who found the frog rain in Idaho.”

            “It was Missouri,” Willow mumbled. “And it was toads, not frogs.”

            “Come on, Xander, that information could be useful sometime,” Buffy said. “I mean, the spring equinox comes around every year. So it’ll be useful at least one day out of every three-hundred-and-sixty-five.”

            Willow sadly tucked her little notebook into her backpack.

            “Hey,” Xander said, “isn’t that Giles? He’s sure getting here late today.”

            Buffy looked up. Xander was right: Giles had clearly just parked in the faculty parking lot. He hurried up to the school, his tweed jacket swinging with his steps. His hair was not as neatly groomed as usual, and his glasses were barely perched on the end of his nose. Most unusually, he was without the satchel stuffed with books and vampire-fighting tools that followed him to the library every day. In its place, Giles held a stainless steel to-go mug. “Hello, Buffy, Willow, Xander,” Giles said, as he took the front steps two at a time. “I see your late night didn’t delay your arrival to school.”

            “No, but yours clearly did,” Buffy said, worried. “Are you okay, Giles? You’re usually here way before the students.”

            Giles looked a little cagey, but he smiled anyway. “Oh, I’m perfectly all right, Buffy. I appreciate your concern, though. I simply didn’t sleep well last night. I had some therapy—I mean thoughts! Thoughts that I needed to, erm, process.” He took a hearty gulp from the to-go mug in his hand.

            “Is that coffee?” asked Buffy, in horror.

            “Yes, er, I didn’t have time to make tea,” Giles said. “And I didn’t want to be a bad host.”

            “A bad host? To whom?”

            “Well, I invited Sam Winchester to get some rest at my house, since his brother wanted to stay at the library to research a little longer. It turns out that the average American male above the age of eighteen greatly prefers coffee to tea in the morning. Sam could quote the exact study this data is from while he was half-asleep.”

            “Wait, Dean wanted to stay and study?” Buffy repeated, incredulously. “And Sam wanted to go? Did they switch brains at some point last night?”

            “There were extenuating circumstances which forced the seemingly switched roles,” Giles said. “I will give you an update on the situation after school. For now, I need to go alphabetize the non-fiction section and make sure Dean and his acquaintance left enough library to alphabetize before the school paper committee comes in at ten.”

            “Okay,” Buffy said. “See you, Giles…” She watched as her watcher scurried away, still sipping at his coffee.

            Willow started scribbling in her little notebook again. “Giles drinking coffee. That has to be an equinox thing.”

            “Pretty sure he just explained why he was drinking the magic elixir,” Xander said. “Which is in and of itself a very weird explanation. Call me crazy, but Giles doesn’t seem the type of guy to let a total stranger stay at his house. They might trail mud into the foyer.”

            “But Giles is very kind,” Willow protested.

            “Whatever,” Buffy said. She took Willow’s arm and steered her into the school. “We can worry about Giles later. Right now, I need a crash course on the last two weeks’ worth of trig before the test.”

            While Buffy and Willow conducted a frenzied cram session in the hallway, Giles went on to the library. He made it through the double doors and stopped dead in his tracks: Harry and Dean had not torn the library apart as he had feared, but neither had they left the library the night before. They were still there, fast asleep. Dean was sprawled out in a chair with his face in a book, a sleeping arrangement which could not have been comfortable at all. Harry was sitting slumped against a book shelf with his legs stretched out in front of him, a large book on arcane magic in his hands. The two seasoned monster fighters had taken the precaution to put a line of salt in front of the library doors, and Giles accidentally scuffed it with his shoe. He tripped slightly and lost his grip on his coffee mug. It felt to the floor with a clatter and rolled away.

            Dean startled awake with a shout and dove under the desk. Harry flung the book straight into the air and lunged for the staff lying a foot from his feet. “It’s Giles!” Giles shouted, holding his hands in the air. “I’m Giles! I’m sorry, I dropped my coffee!”

             The book fell back to earth on top of Harry’s head. He lost his balance and landed face-first on the carpet. Dean banged his knee on the leg of the desk and swore. “Giles,” Dean said at length, rubbing his knee, “what time is it?”

            “Half past eight in the morning,” Giles said. “You didn’t know?”

            “I was reading up until four thirty this morning. I must have drifted off somewhere around there.”

            “Carpet burn on the face,” groaned Harry. “What a lovely cosmetic addition.”

            “You should probably leave before any of the students come in,” Giles said. He picked up his coffee mug and set it on the counter, then he went to help Dean and Harry right themselves. “It’s not that I’m trying to get rid of you,” Giles continued, “but it would be rather difficult to explain who you are and why you’re in the library during school hours.”

            “I’m a detective,” Harry said, as if it was obvious. “I’ve been hired to try and solve the case of the missing boys.”

            “I’m Harry’s investigative partner,” Dean said. He stood and shook out his knee. “Don Thomas, nice to meet you. I’ve even got identification—“

            “That’s more than I need to know about the particulars of a hunter’s information-seeking methods,” Giles said, hastily. “Deniable plausibility, and all that. But those cover stories still won’t explain why you’re in the high school library.” He put a hand to his head. “On second thought, it might be the perfect cover to learn more about the case. You could speak to students, question them about their activities, perhaps determine what led those boys to be chosen for the sacrifice.”

            “Yeah, about that,” coughed Harry. “We think we know why those kids were picked.”

            “Really?” Giles said, eagerly. “Why?”

            Harry’s ears turned red and a blush dusted his cheeks. Dean snickered at Harry’s discomfort. “They were virgins,” Harry said.

            Giles’s eyebrows shot into his hair. “Oh. _Oh_ , yes, that does make sense. Well.”

            “Virgin sacrifice,” Dean said. “That’s a classic. A sick and twisted classic, but there it is.”

            Harry nodded. “That would explain the boys’ ages and their sudden disappearance from the parties. My guess is whoever’s performing the rituals has some bait for the kids—“

            “Like a hot older chick who’s into them,” Dean said. “Teenage boys, man. They never change. I would have fallen for that trick, too, when I was fourteen.”

            “You mean you wouldn’t now?” asked Harry, dryly. “Because I have.”

            “It’s safe to say we all would, given the right, er, bait,” Giles said. He scratched his chin for something to do other than look at the other two men. “Do you think this young woman could be at Sunnydale High?”

            “It’s possible,” Harry said. “Do you know any girls who fit the bill, Giles?”

            “I don’t exactly pay attention to which teenage girls are ready and willing to lure boys in with the promise of sex or to assist in homicide,” Giles said, in irritation. “As a high school faculty member, that’s something I avoid like the plague.”

            “Cheerleaders are typically the type,” Dean said. “They’re competitive and ruthless. Plus, as a general rule, they’re pretty.”

             “I am not letting you anywhere near the female student population,” Giles said. “For your own safety. We’ll let Buffy, Willow, and Cordelia handle that line of inquiry for us.”

            “Who’s Cordelia?” asked Dean.

            “Giles?” A teenaged girl’s voice cut into their conversation.

            The three men turned to look at the newcomer. A high school girl of moderate height stood outlined in the hallway’s light as she opened the library doors. She was a beautifully-proportioned girl, and she wore an outfit which did nothing to disguise her figure. The two men in the room who didn’t know her personally zeroed in immediately on her young face to save themselves the discomfort of staring at her tight red sweater or her leather mini-skirt.

            “Giles,” the girl said, peremptorily, and her voice cracked the image of her worldly appearance, “Freak and Dork caught me on the way to trig and dished about this whole human sacrifice gig. You don’t really think someone’s been sacrificing those little boys, do you?” No one vocally questioned the choice of words ‘little boys’, since she herself could not be much older than sixteen.

            “Gentlemen,” Giles said, wryly, “this is Cordelia.”

            “You were talking about me?” demanded the girl, Cordelia. “Ew! Weird, Giles. Very weird.”

            “I was merely pointing out the fact that you might be amenable to helping us investigate the human sacrifices,” Giles said, calmly. He was used to Cordelia’s dramatics.

            “Who’s ‘us’?” Cordelia said. She looked up at Dresden, who towered over her even in her heels. “Wow, you’re like that guy from [The Gunslinger](http://s3.amazonaws.com/digitaltrends-uploads-prod/2016/05/gunslinger-dark-tower.jpg).”

            “Uh, thanks?” Harry said, throwing up one eyebrow.

            “Stephen King would wet his pants if he met you,” Cordelia continued, flipping her long, dark hair. “I’m not that big of a chicken, though.”

            “Good to know, Cordie,” Harry said.

            “Ugh, no. I’m Cordelia. It’s bad enough that Xander calls me that, don’t you start, Random Dude. Who are you, by the way?”

            “Harry Dresden, Private Investigator.”

            “Also a wizard,” Giles said. When Harry and Dean started, he explained, “She is…initiated, you could say.”

            “I’ve seen some vampire action, he means,” Cordelia said. She didn’t appear to be fazed by the introduction of a wizard into her sphere of influence. “So now I’m slumming it with the school’s lowest items on the food chain.”

            “You’re a real gem, sweetie,” Harry said, sarcastically. “They’re real lucky to have you.”

            Cordelia smiled, inured to the snark. “I know, right? They have no idea how much socialization I have to give up so I can go be the Daphne to their Scooby, Thelma, and Shaggy.”

            “Quite,” Giles coughed. “Cordelia, we need your assistance in this matter. We think these boys’ killers are using a girl around your age to lure their victims into the sacrificial clearing where they’re—well--sacrificed. Now, of course, we as grown men cannot approach girls your age with any amount of decency, so we need an insider to search for this, er, temptress.”

            Cordelia thought about this for a moment. “So you’re saying it’s possible a girl from Sunnydale High is a murderer?” She asked at length.

            “Or at least an accessory,” Harry said.

            “Hmmm,” Cordelia said, with crossed arms. “I’ve got a couple in mind, already. I’ll see what I can do.”

            “Your help is, as always, greatly appreciated,” Giles said, without any hint of sarcasm. “I will tell Buffy and Willow to do their own digging, too.”

            “Those social rejects won’t get far,” Cordelia snorted. “They’re lucky if anyone older than a freshman talks to them, much less gives them a clue about their freaky after-school activities.” Then she snapped her fingers. “Oooh! The Bronze! That’s the perfect place to catch this girl. I bet you twenty bucks she’ll be looking for fresh meat there. It’s what I’d do.”

            “Twenty bucks,” Dean said, amused. “I like it. You’re on.”

            The teenager laughed and turned around to face Dean. “Look, buddy, you better be willing to cough up—“

            Cordelia seemed to truly see the third man in the room [for the first time](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UjAOYDqGcaE). Her voice cut off abruptly and her face went slack. Whereas Dean and Harry felt morally obligated to ignore the girl’s physical appeal, Cordelia had no such qualms: she stared openly at Dean, and her mouth hung open a second or two before she said, “Who are _you_?”

            “That is Dean Winchester,” Giles said.

            “I’m Dean Winchester,” Dean said, with an eye-roll. “Otherwise known as Giles’s echo, apparently.”

            “Um, hey,” Cordelia said, with a visible change in her demeanor. She started fidgeting with her clothes and flicking back strands of her hair with her fingertips. “I’m Cordelia. Uh, well, Giles, I have to go bomb a physics test—I mean, I’m gonna ace it. Totally. Because I’m smart as well as pretty.”

            “All right, Cordelia,” Giles said. “Please, pursue your academics,” and under his breath, he added, “rather than men who are far too old for you.”

            “I’ll hit The Bronze tonight, too,” Cordelia said, as she backed away towards the library doors. “I will be so helpful, you won’t even have to do anything. I’ll have done it all. Everything.” She hadn’t stopped staring at Dean. “Okay, bye!” Then she turned around and hurried away. Dean and Harry very pointedly did not watch her retreating figure.

            “There goes trouble,” Harry said, to Dean.

            “Oh, shut up,” Dean growled. “She’s just a kid. She’ll get over it.”

            Harry grinned. “Puppy love at its finest, kid. That was kind of cute.”

            “That was weird, Harry. I mean, I slept in a chair last night. I look like a hobo right now. Kid’s got terrible taste.”

            “What I said about Buffy,” Giles said, quite calmly, “about the sixty ways to kill things? That goes for Cordelia, as well.”

            “No parental advisory label needed, Giles,” Dean said, exasperatedly. “For crying out loud, I’m not a pervert.”

            “Unlike our suspects,” Harry said, thoughtfully. “It just makes me think, fellas: If our bait is a high school girl, how did the sex cult bring her into the fold?”

            “You can’t call it a sex cult, man,” Dean said, with a badly-hidden snicker, “or I will never take this case seriously.”

            Harry went to pick up the book on arcane magic from where it lay open-faced on the floor. “Like it or not, this case isn’t a joke, Dean. Kids are dying in horrific ways. We have to get to the bottom of this thing quick, or more of them are going to die. Now, how would a bunch of freaky adults rope a child into their madness?”

            “They must also have a connection to the school,” Giles said, slowly. “Either that or she is a daughter to one of the participants.”

            Dean grimaced. “Well, that would make this whole scenario about a hundred times creepier.”

            “Isn’t there an assembly at the school today after classes?” Harry asked. “I saw a flyer about it last night.”

            “Ah, yes,” Giles said, wearily, “the S.A.P.S. League.” When he got puzzled looks from his colleagues, he said, “The Sunnydale Abstinence from Pre-Marital Sex League is giving a talk on staying safe during the Spring Fling. It’s all based on the statistics that teenage pregnancy and sexually-transmitted diseases rise every year around the time of the festival.”

            “Around the time of the festival,” Harry repeated, “or around the time of the spring equinox?”

            “Well, I suppose they’re one in the same—“ Giles straightened up suddenly, his eyes alight. “Oh, very good, Dresden. Very good. Yes, you may be on to something!”

            “Wait, are you saying there might be something to this whole spring equinox fertility magic whim-wham?” Dean asked.

            “These cultists know what they’re doing, is what I’m saying.” Harry went over to the case board posted on the wall and wrote _SPRING FLING_ in capital letters underneath Sam’s scrawled _SPRING EQUINOX?_ “Fertility rites are wild, chaotic. They’re supposed to mimic nature’s unpredictability and its role in the continuation of the life cycle. That’s why fertility cults usually party like it’s 1099. That’s why they choose auspicious dates on the calendar to perform their rituals, so they’re more in tune with nature. Now, according to statistics, this spring fling is a hotspot for teenagers to get it on like Marvin Gaye’s singing over the loud speakers, and it’s going to happen on the exact day of the spring equinox. Heck, the equinox is probably why the statistics go haywire. It seems like the perfect storm if you’re trying to summon a chaos demon or a fertility god.”

            “So the cultists are going to perform their climax ritual during the spring fling,” Giles summarized, succinctly.

            “No,” Dean said, with growing comprehension, “the spring fling _is_ the climax ritual.” Then his face twisted with horror. “Giles, why choose the word _climax_ to describe a sex rite? That is way too much innuendo for one sentence.”

            “You’re on my wavelength, Dean,” Harry said, with a proud grin. “See, look at that. You don’t need Sammy to do the heavy mental lifting.”

            “Whatever, as if I ever did,” Dean said, offended. “I taught Sam how to tie his shoelaces. I don’t need his input to solve a case.” When Harry just kept grinning, he huffed. “Where is Sammy, anyway?”

            “At my house, still sleeping,” Giles said. “He didn’t get to bed until well past five o’clock this morning.”

            Dean went from mock-offended to concerned in less than ten seconds. “Is he okay?” His face blanched. “Oh, did he have another nightmare?”

            “Sam’s got nightmares?” Harry said, equally concerned.

            “They’re more like night terrors,” Dean said. “Don’t tell him I said this, but sometimes he wakes up screaming. Sometimes, he’s crying.”

            Harry was aghast. “Why? What happened?”

            “We don’t have time to discuss this right now,” Giles said, brusquely. “Besides, it’s hardly appropriate without Sam’s input in the discussion. If you want to know, you should ask him yourself, Harry.”

            “Don’t even think about it,” Dean said. When Harry made to protest, he went on, “I mean it, Harry. It’s a touchy subject on a good day.”

            Harry looked like he wanted to object further, but instead he just shrugged and said, “We’ll work on the case first, then we’ll focus on the family drama. But you and I both know that nightmares aren’t always kosher when you’re in this business. We’re gonna have to talk about it at some point.”

            “Good luck with that,” Dean muttered. Then he said, “So, Giles, what’s our next move? Cordelia’s got the bait girl covered, but how do we find the rest of the cult?”

            Giles went to the case board and looked over the gathered clues for a while. At length, he said, “If we’re going to follow this lead about the spring fling, then I suppose we should find out as much as we can about the event itself. We might even need to sign up as volunteers or chaperones.”

            “How do we do that?” asked Dean.

            Giles smiled thinly. “By attending the after-school S.A.P.S League talk, of course.”

 


	8. The Stranger at McDonald's

           

            Sam slept until noon. The postman rang the doorbell, but the houseguest remained passed out on the couch, blissfully unaware. He didn’t even stir when Giles’s neighbor started up a leaf-blower at ten o’clock. Finally, his body’s own internal mechanics forced him to wake up to eat something and to relieve his bladder. Sam didn’t want to take Giles’s food without permission (even though Giles had explicitly told him to help himself), so he walked down to the nearest fast food restaurant and ordered a soda and a large order of fries. He sat by the window and ate the fries slowly, doing his best to recall the ritual of the night before. He took one of the napkins on the table and wrote out some of the key thoughts and memories of the night.

            Sam did not really fit the bill of a typical hunter. He didn’t see himself as a particularly delicate person—he liked beer and bars and shotguns, too—but he didn’t have the same instinctive hatred of all things paranormal that most hunters possessed. He liked to study things, to analyze the finer points of magic and rituals, to figure out why certain monsters were vulnerable to certain banes. The why mattered to him as much as the what or the how. That’s why he took the time to wonder about the ritual practitioners themselves.

What kind of thing, person or otherwise, engaged in a ritual like the one he had seen the night before? The practitioners he had seen last night looked human enough, and traditionally, fertility rituals were only needed by humans. So why did those people think a fertility rite was necessary? Did they know they were probably summoning a minor god or a demon? Did they understand the forces they might stir with their wild party? And most importantly, could they justify to themselves the brutal sacrifices they had performed, or did they simply not care about the kids they were killing?

Sam dropped a fry on the floor. He leaned down to pick it up. When he straightened, he nearly tipped his barstool backward in shock. A man sat on the stool across from him at the high table. “What the—what?” Sam spat out. “How did—what the heck?”

“Sam Winchester,” the man said, and his voice was weighty in and of itself. “I didn’t think you or your brother would ever come to this town.” His eyes were dark and expressive, but the rest of his face was carefully still, like he had shut down the muscles to veil his thoughts to outsiders.

Sam was very much not okay with this strange man invading his personal space. “Who are you?” he demanded, struggling to keep his voice low. “And how do you know me?”

The man gave a little shrug, like anything else was too much effort. “People in my world know you and your family, Sam. Especially your dad. Word gets around.”

“Funny,” Sam said, “I don’t remember advertising.”

“Some actions speak louder than words.” The man slid a small box across the table. “I know you’re here for a human problem, but your real issue here isn’t the humans. Take this. It’ll protect you, at least for a while.”

Sam sneered. “Yeah, because I’m definitely going to open a box from a total stranger who says he knows me because I’m a hunter.”

            The man leaned forward slightly, and his presence suddenly seemed much more substantial, like he could burn his own intensity into Sam with the lines of his body and the weight of his stare. “You are in terrible danger, here, Sam,” the man said. “You have no idea. If your brother had known this place was a hellmouth, he would have never brought you here.” He leaned back and flipped open the box, himself. “I’m not your enemy, and I never will be.”

            In spite of himself, Sam looked at the contents of the box. If he had expected something dramatic, he was disappointed: inside the small, plain jewelry box lay a silver chain from which dangled two objects: a[ simple, silver crucifix](http://applesofgold.com/Merchant2/mcvan/MC-L9073C.jpg) and a medallion which bore the image of [Saint Jude](http://i.ebayimg.com/00/s/MTAyNFg3OTM=/z/arMAAOSwBahVJ84G/%24_35.JPG?set_id=880000500F). “Saint Jude,” Sam said, “the patron saint of lost causes. Wow, thanks. That’s really considerate.” He looked up to tell his table-mate to get lost, but the man was already gone.

            “Huh,” Sam said, to himself. Then, he sighed and picked up the silver chain and laid the necklace on the table. He took an ice cube from his soda [and laid it on the medallion](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WaYh3SlRK0w). The ice started to melt immediately. He did the same with the crucifix with the same results. “Huh,” he said again. “Real silver.” After staring at the necklace for another five minutes, Sam took the medallion between his fingers and stared at the tiny, imprinted face of the martyr. “You wouldn’t try to kill me or curse me, would you, Saint Jude?” Sam asked. There was no answer. Sam shrugged and slipped the necklace over his head. The two pendants came to rest against his sternum. When he wasn’t instantaneously struck dead, the youngest Winchester figured the necklace was harmless.

            He searched around the room for his mysterious benefactor, but there was no sign of the strange, dark-featured man. He had vanished as quickly as he had appeared. Based on the stranger’s gift, Sam felt it was safe to assume he wasn’t a demon, but other than that, he had no guarantees as to what had just visited him. He looked down at the necklace which gleamed brightly against his maroon shirt. He resolved to tell Dean about the weird visit and the puzzling gift as soon as he met him at the high school later that afternoon.

            Tucking the napkin into his pocket, Sam rose and threw his trash away. Then he sighed. He decided to go back to the clearing, to investigate the after-ritual evidence. Giles had promised to fetch him at three o’clock that afternoon, so he had around two hours to do some investigation and make it back to Giles’s house. He went up to the restaurant’s counter and asked, “Do you know how to get to the nature trail park from here?”


	9. The SAPS After-School Special

After their last classes of the day, Buffy, Xander, and Willow met each other in the computer class room. Miss Calendar joined them as soon as she had ushered her last student out the door. “Have you heard anything more about the rituals from Giles or the Winchesters?” she asked, as she packed up her lesson plans.

            “Negative,” Buffy said. “But to be fair, Giles was kind of in a hurry this morning. He was late to the library.”

            “Oh, yeah?” Miss Calendar said, looking surprised. “That’s not like him at all.”

            “I guess he and Sam Winchester stayed up late,” Xander said. “You know, painting each other’s nails and braiding each other’s hair.”

            “More like doing the heavy lifting on this case,” Buffy said, gloomily. “So far my help has added up to exactly nil. I need some heads to smack together.”

            “Come on, Buffy, we’ve only known about the sacrifices for one whole day,” Willow said, encouragingly. “We’ll find you some heads to bash. These things take time.”

            Buffy shook her head. “The more time we take, the more kids will die.”

            “Giles will find something to go on,” Miss Calendar said, with perfect confidence. “He’s the expert. And we’ll all pitch in and offer our own expertise, like we always do.”

            “And if worst comes to worst, we crash the party and wreck the ritual,” Xander said. “Piece of cake, Buff. You do it all the time.”

            “Except walking into a pagan ritual without any idea of the kind of power those people are wielding might be incredibly stupid,” Miss Calendar pointed out, dryly. “Even for the slayer, that’s not a smart move.”

            “Whatever,” Buffy said, as she adjusted her backpack. “I’m pretty sure we’ve done stupider.”

            Before the conversation could devolve further, Cordelia flounced into the classroom and pulled herself onto one of the desks. “So,” she began, with a toss of her long, brown hair, “you dorks failed to mention the fact that one of the guys who showed up yesterday afternoon while you were investigating is a stone cold fox.”

            There was a moment where all four investigators blinked in confusion. “What?” Buffy finally said.

            “Like, I was expecting another Giles, okay?” Cordelia went on. “That man back there? Not a Giles. He’s like the anti-Giles. He is rivaling Angel on the hotness scale.”

            “Speak English, Cordelia,” Xander demanded.

            “Dean!” Cordelia said, as if it were obvious. “Dean. You know, the guy with the gun name?”

            “Winchester,” Willow supplied.

            “He is a winning Chester, if you know what I mean.”

            “I swear, I hear the syllables coming out, but they just don’t fit together,” Xander said, darkly. “Honestly, woman, do you find every male over sixteen attractive?”

            Cordelia gave Xander a scathing once over. “Definitely not,” she said, her tone making it clear where Xander stood on the hotness scale. “Seriously,” she looked at the other females in the room, “you didn’t even mention it.”

            “We were a little distracted by the pagan ritualistic murders of teenage boys to squeeze in that little detail,” Buffy said. “But next time, we’ll absolutely give you some forewarning. We’ve got to keep our priorities.”

            “Finally, some common sense,” Cordelia huffed. Then she crossed her shapely legs and leaned back on the desk. Xander rolled his eyes. “Well, I came in here to tell you that Giles and Dean and Gunslinger asked me to scope out The Bronze tonight for the girl the pagans are using for their bait to get boys to the ritual.”

            “They think a teenage girl could be involved in this mess?” asked Miss Calendar, frowning. “That’s a dark thought.”

            “Hey, it makes sense,” Cordelia said. “Boys are only interested in a couple things, and older women are on the list.”

            “I think it’s more accurate to say any women,” Xander said.

            “Even though it makes a lot more sense for women to be into older men,” Cordelia continued, with a dreamy sigh. “Because unlike boys, men are mature, confident, and interested in women as people rather than creepy fantasies.”

            “And decent men are _not_ into teenage girls,” Miss Calendar interjected firmly. “Especially if they like to spend time outside of jail rather than inside.”

            “But teenage girls are into men,” Cordelia said. “And that’s got to count for something, right?”

            “Drop it, Cordelia,” Miss Calendar said. “I’m not your mother, but I am a teacher at your school, and I’m going to tell you: you should keep those kind of thoughts to yourself unless you want to get Dean in a load of trouble.”

            “You mean more trouble than he’s in already, being a hunter,” Xander said. “I mean, who knows what kind of killer’s instincts the guy’s got? He kills stuff for a living. That’s got to warp a guy’s gourd.”

            “I kill things, too,” Buffy said, offended. “Are you saying I’m messed up in the head?”

            Xander opened his mouth two or three times, then said, “Nope, I can’t dig myself out of that hole.”

            “Oh,” Willow said, suddenly, pointing at the clock, “we’re going to be late for the after-school assembly!”

            “What, the one about keeping it in your pants?” Cordelia said, scornfully. “As if. It’s not even mandatory, Willow.”

            “I think you might need a little refresher on the dangers of teenage hormones, Cordelia,” Buffy said. “Besides, we should probably go to see if we can spot the next victims of the ritual.”

            “How could we do that at a sex talk?” asked Xander. Then he snapped his fingers. “ _Oh_. Oh, that’s very clever, Buffy. Very Sherlock Holmes-ish.”

            “I’ve been thinking: the victims of ritual sacrifice are usually virgins, right?” Buffy said, as they all filed out of the classroom.

            “Usually, yes,” Miss Calendar said. “You think the boys selected for the ritual are virgins?”

            “It would explain their age, wouldn’t it?”

            “Yes, it would,” Miss Calendar said, with a pleased smile. “That was a great deduction, Buffy.”

            “I don’t get why the victims are boys, though,” Buffy went on, as they joined the group of students headed towards the gym. “I thought girls were the typical sacrifice material.”

            “Male victims could point to a female deity,” Miss Calendar said. “But whatever the reason, a great place to start would be to see who’s really listening at the abstinence talk.”

            Buffy nodded. “So here we are, on our way to a gross and uncomfortable lecture, along with a third of the school, which inevitably makes it even more gross and uncomfortable.”

            “High school,” Xander said. “Such a wealth of tender memories.”

            They made it to the gym along with about ten other students, the sum total of high schoolers who could be bothered with an abstinence talk after a full schoolday’s worth of adults talking at them. Buffy and company found seats near the back of the bleachers so they could observe the other students. In the very back of the room, Giles stood with Dean Winchester and a tall, dark man in a leather duster. Buffy nudged Willow and nodded toward the group of men. Willow widened her eyes in acknowledgement then shrugged, displaying her ignorance on who the new man might be.

            “His name’s Harry or something,” Cordelia said, leaning down to speak in Buffy and Willow’s ears. “Giles said he was a wizard.”

            “Really?” Willow blurted out, too loudly. Students turned to look at her. Blushing, Willow said, “Meeting a real wizard would be unbelievable! In order to be considered a full-on wizard, you have to be really powerful—as in, you can use wands and manipulate the elements and stuff.”

            “But why is he here?” Buffy said. “And how does he know Giles?”

            “Maybe he knows Dean,” Willow pointed out reasonably. “He could be a hunter.”

            “If we could have your attention, kids,” said Mister Bukowski, the biology teacher. He was a stout, sturdy man who looked more suited to plaid and denim than the slacks and button-down shirt he had stretched over his bulky frame. “The Sunnydale Abstinence from Pre-Marital Sex League is here to talk about safe behaviors during this weekend’s spring fling.” He waited for the students to truly quiet down before he said, “We have with us today the league president, Mister Anthony Papadopoulos.”

There was a smattering of polite applause and some poorly-concealed snickers from the students while Mister Papadopoulos took the floor. Buffy herself had to mash her lips together to stop her grin. The president of the S.A.P.S. league had to have the worst name she’d heard in a long time. “Bet the kids had fun with that name when he was in our shoes,” Xander whispered to Buffy and Willow.

Mister Papadopoulos appeared to be as tall as Sam Winchester, which in Buffy’s opinion was freakishly tall. He was also on the thin side, which accentuated his height and his finely-chiseled features. He smiled benevolently at the gathered students, and his teeth shone ultra-white. Buffy suspected bleach was at work in that smile. His outfit outdid every teacher present in its neatness, and the suit jacket on his shoulders and the scarf around his neck put him in the “stylishly pseudo-European” category. Based on some of the girls’ reactions around her, Buffy thought Mister Papadopoulos might be counter-acting his own mission to convert all high schoolers into abstinence believers.

“Good afternoon, kids,” Mister Papadopoulos said, in a perfectly steady, fraternal voice.  Buffy had known therapists with less soothing voices. “As you know, I’m here to talk to you about the very troubling statistics that surround the annual Sunnydale School System Spring Fling. According to our sources, this is the time of year where kids your age make some very bad choices about their health and sexuality.” Mister Papadopoulos’s face took on the classic expression of an adult trying to convey his earnestness to a group of naïve children. “Teen pregnancy rates sky-rocket, and STDs are reported more this month than in any other month for the rest of the year. That’s a trend that the Abstinence from Pre-marital Sex League would love to reverse.”

As Mister Papadopoulos continued with his fairly standard sex talk, Buffy’s attention wandered to the other students who had shown up to listen to S.A.P.S. She recognized Darrel, who was a preacher’s kid, and his girlfriend, Cynthia. There were a couple band kids, one lone football player, and a few drama club members. But the majority of the students were freshmen. Buffy counted out the boys present: not counting Xander, there were five, and three of them were freshmen.

Cynthia tapped Buffy on the shoulder and shoved a piece of paper at her. “Here’s the sign-in sheet,” she said, around the piece of gum she was chewing. “If you sign it, you’ll get extra credit in biology or chemistry.”

Buffy looked down at the piece of paper, the gears whirring in her brain. If they could get a copy of the sign-in sheet, then she and her friends would know which kids were here and could make sure they weren’t served up as the next sacrifices. She scrawled her name and passed the sheet to Xander, who rolled his eyes and signed.

“We’ll need Giles to get a copy of that paper,” Buffy hissed to Willow.

“Miss Calendar knows Mister Bukowski,” Willow said in return. “It’ll be a piece of cake for her to get it.”

“I can’t believe that there’s going to be physical proof that I went to this dork circus,” Cordelia whispered. “The things I do for you people, you have no idea.”

“We’re touched,” Xander said.

“If you want to know more about the dangers of sexual promiscuity and the abstinence way of life,” Mister Papadopoulos said, to finish up his talk, “then you should stop by the League’s own booth at the spring fling this weekend. We’ll have brochures, free counseling,” here he smiled winningly, “and, of course, free candy and snacks. Thanks for your time, kids. Don’t forget: be safe and have clean fun.”

There was another round of obligatory applause, and then the kids stood and started milling around in the way all high schoolers do after a boring talk. Buffy, Willow, Xander, and Cordelia hung around nonchalantly and watched as Giles, Dean, and the mysterious wizard approached Mister Papadopoulos. “Now what are they up to?” Buffy asked, staring at Giles’s back.

“Probably getting tips on how to be attractive yet unapproachable,” Xander said. “Seriously, though: you’d think a guy who was so worried about teenagers’ libido wouldn’t dress like a gigolo.”

“That, Xander, is called knowing a blazer from a raincoat,” Cordelia said, loftily. “And yes, it’s very attractive for a man to pay attention to his own appearance. It beats your middle school reject look any day.”

“Did you notice any kids looking particularly chaste?” Willow broke in, before Xander could retort. “I think we all looked a little bored. Mister Papadopoulos isn’t the best motivational speaker.”

“Papadopoulos,” Buffy repeated, giggling. “You know, it’s hard to take anything he says seriously when his name sounds like it came out of a Doctor Seuss book.”

Giles, Dean, and Harry-Something finally broke away from Mister Papadopoulos and the other teachers who sponsored the sex talk and walked over to Buffy and company. “Hey, Winchester,” Buffy said, in greeting, “I’m liking the slept-under-a-bridge look.”

“That’s not very nice, Buffy,” Willow said.

Dean gave Buffy a flat look, but he didn’t seem all that offended. “What, am I supposed to be a cologne model or something? I was researching all night. Sue me.”

“Well,” Giles said, “you’ll be interested to know that we are all now official chaperones to the spring fling.”

“Wow, they must be desperate for adult supervision,” Xander said. “’Cause, no offense, but you guys look more like bouncers than chaperones.”

The tallest of the three men, the mysterious Harry-something, raised his eyebrows and said, “And this must be Buffy, Willow, and Xander.”

“And Cordelia,” Giles added. “But you already…met her.” Cordelia beamed but remained uncharacteristically silent, her eyes focused purely on Dean. Giles cleared his throat and said, “Children, this is Harry Dresden. He’s here in town purely by accident, but he’s agreed to help us with this case—“

“And you’re a wizard, right?” Willow interrupted, too excited to wait for Giles to finish.

Harry took the interruption in stride. “That’s right. I’m a genuine, card-carrying wizard. No love potions, endless purses, parties, or other entertainment.”

 Willow bounced a little in her enthusiasm, her large eyes shining. “Oh gosh, do I have questions for you! A real, live wizard—it’s Christmas!”

“Okay, Willow,” Xander said, faintly alarmed, “no more caffeine for you.”

Harry seemed genuinely flattered by Willow’s eagerness. “Well, Willow—it is Willow, right?” At Willow’s nod, he continued, “I can see you’ve got some magical potential, yourself. Are you interested in becoming a practitioner?”

            This question made Willow blush from her forehead to her clavicles. “I have potential?” She squeaked. “I don’t know—um, it’s just, I’ve read some things and I really would like to know some of the basics—and I’m kind of a dork, so I get into lots of things—I mean, I hit the books—“

            “Look, Will, I’m really happy that you’ll get to pick a wizard’s brain,” Buffy said, not un-kindly, “but let’s zero back in on the human sacrifices for now, okay?” At Willow’s nod, she turned to Giles. “So, you’re going to chaperone the spring fling. Does this mean you think the fertility cult’s planning to sabotage it or something?”

            “Dean, Harry, and I believe that the cult is going to use the spring fling for their final ritual of the season,” Giles said. “The festival is the same day as the equinox, which we know is a powerful event for pagan worship.”

            “Got it,” Buffy said. “Me and Willow and Xander will be there, too.”

            “Whoa, now,” Harry said, “I’m not sure you guys should come.”

“What do you mean?” Buffy asked.

“This whole gig could get pretty dicey. I mean, these cultists don’t have any problems knocking off kids your age, Buffy.”

“Did you not tell him I’m The Slayer?” Buffy asked Giles, stiffly.

Giles shifted. “Of course I told him, Buffy—“

“I know you’re The Slayer,” Harry said, with a wave of his hand. “But don’t you think you could take a vacation now and then? We’ve got me, Giles, Dean, Sam, and Thomas on this case. That’s kind of overkill for one sex cult. I think we can handle this one.”

Buffy looked at him like he had said the earth was flat and cannibals were just misunderstood. “The Slayer doesn’t take vacations,” she said, flatly. “And I don’t take suggestions from people I’ve just met, either.”

Harry looked at Giles. “You don’t think letting them get involved in the fertility ritual is a good idea, do you?”

Buffy had never seen Giles look so acutely put-upon. “Well, I never _like_ the idea of letting Buffy do anything dangerous, but—“

            “Giles, the sex weirdos are targeting high-schoolers!” Harry pressed.

            “He’s got a point, Giles,” Dean finally said.

            “Not you, too,” Buffy protested.

Dean shrugged in reply. “Why walk into a situation where you could be the next human sacrifice if you don’t have to? You could let us wrap this one up.”

“Ugh, you _macho man_.” The slayer put her hands on her hips and straightened up to her full height, which put her somewhere around the height of Harry’s chest. “Listen, Harry: I appreciate your concern, but this is my job. I’m The Slayer. I keep watch on this town and I don’t let supernatural mojo mess with the people in it. So if anyone is going to be at the spring fling to stop these people, it’s going to be me. With or without your permission.” And with that, she stalked off. “Come on, Willow, Xander: let’s go to the library and wait for these guys to come to their senses.”

            Willow and Xander followed their slayer without comment. The adults watched them go. Miss Calendar walked up and watched the teenagers walk away. “What did you do to upset Buffy?” she asked, amused.

            “I suggested she sit this one out. Now I’m in the ‘lame adult’ zone,” Harry said, drily.

            “Dude, you’re over twenty,” Dean said. “You’re permanently in the ‘lame adult’ zone. We all are.”

            “Buffy hardly needs our protection, Harry,” Giles sighed, as though it pained him to admit it. “I’ve seen her take on six vampires alone and reduce them all to dust. When I train with her, her fighting form is natural, like she was born to be a slayer. She’s a force of nature, you might say.”

            “Buffy might be,” Harry responded, “but what about Willow and Xander? Frankly, if they’ve hung around The Slayer all this time, it’s amazing they’re still alive.”

            “They don’t venture into combat like Buffy does,” Giles said. “They’re mostly her moral support, which is just as important as physical backup.” He seemed to build momentum the more he spoke. “And I’m no slouch when it comes to crossbows, I’ll have you know. I _can_ provide some help to Buffy.”

            Harry’s eyebrow lifted. “Crossbows. Huh.” He let the subject go with a shoulder twitch. “Look, I guess I’m stepping on something that’s really none of my business. I just don’t want those kids to get hurt unnecessarily, especially on a case where humans are the most likely culprits.”

            “That’s perfectly understandable,” Giles said, in a stilted voice. “Thank you for your concern. I’m sure once Buffy considers the matter more thoroughly, she’ll agree with you, too.”

            “Are we done with the pow-wow, now?” asked Dean. “You two are worse than Sam when it comes to wordiness.”

            Giles put a hand to his forehead. “Sam! My goodness, I almost forgot! I’m supposed to fetch him in—“ he checked his watch, “twenty minutes! I have to go!”

            Giles hurried off, leaving Dean, Harry, and Miss Calendar to stare at one another. “So,” Harry said, to Jenny, “I heard you’re a techno-pagan. How’s that work, exactly?”

 


	10. Storming the Castle...Or Warehouse

Giles made it out of the school and down the road in less than ten minutes. He took a more scenic route toward his house, hoping to elude the mid-afternoon traffic which plagues many small towns. He had promised to pick up Sam after the end of classes in order for everyone to meet in the library to discuss the case. That way, everyone was on the same page as far as clues and leads. Harry had called Thomas, whom Giles had learned about earlier that day, and had instructed him to come to the meeting as well. Giles was curious to meet Thomas, who until this point had been mentioned frequently by Harry but only in the vaguest of terms. Hopefully, the wizard’s mysterious traveling partner would be able to contribute to the case.

            Giles pulled up outside his house in record time. His modest car had made the trip without any trouble. He took out his house key and scurried to the door. He hoped he didn’t startle Sam when he opened the door like he had startled Harry and Dean in the library. He didn’t exactly fancy a personal rendezvous with the entryway rug when Sam reflexively put him on the floor.

            The door opened. Giles called out, “Sam, it’s Giles!” in a loud voice. There was no answer. “Are you awake, Sam?” Giles asked. He stepped into the living room. Sam was not asleep on the couch like he had been that morning. “Sam?” Giles called again. He wandered around the first floor and realized his houseguest was nowhere to be seen. He went upstairs. “Sam?” There was still no response.

            Giles tried to be reasonable. There were several different possibilities for why Sam had not answered him. There were also many normal, everyday reasons for why Sam was not in the house. Perhaps he had stepped out for some milk (Giles had run out the day before). Maybe he had wanted a sandwich at the deli down the road. Maybe he had gotten bored with the house and had gone to investigate the clearing again.

            Giles settled on the clearing as the most likely reason for Sam’s disappearance. He left the house, locked the door behind him, and sped through town to the Sunnydale Nature Trail Park. Once there, he asked some friendly-looking dog owners if they had seen a man who matched Sam’s description. “Yeah,” one of them said, “a tall kid in a maroon plaid shirt? I saw him about two hours ago. He never came back from the trail.” The man had hardly finished his sentence before Giles was off and running down the path.

             “Well, isn’t this wonderful?” Giles muttered to himself, as he huffed along the trail. “I take responsibility for the boy for a whole twenty-four hours, and he’s already missing. Wonderful, Rupert. Simply brilliant.”

            He reached the clearing and put his hands on his knees, fighting to catch his breath. Giles looked all around, but the open space was empty. He made his hands into a funnel around his mouth and shouted, “Sam! Sam Winchester! Sam, please, answer me!” The only answer was the cry of a blue jay somewhere in the woods.

            At a loss for further logical action, Giles started walking the clearing in a systematic zigzag pattern, looking for clues as to Sam’s disappearance. There were the remnants of the last night’s ritual, with the blood-soaked liquor bottle, the altar, and the low table full of food. There were some glass fragments which looked like the shattered pieces of a vodka bottle. There were the traces of the pyre Sam and Giles had built to burn the victim’s body. At last, when he had nearly reached the semi-circle of bonfire ashes, Giles discovered something new: his own Beretta lying abandoned in the grass. The gun was the very same semi-automatic he had given to Sam the night before in the library. Giles knelt to retrieve the gun and checked the magazine for the number of bullets left. There were six bullets left. There had been nine in the gun on the night of the ritual. Sam had spent one bullet on the police scare used to drive away the cultists, so since that time, he had also discharged two more. Giles tucked the gun into his jacket and stood. He thought of Sam’s honest appreciation of the rare books in Giles’s collection, of his pain over the death of his girlfriend. He hardly knew the boy, but he had already developed a fondness for him. Giles couldn’t help but worry as he stood there in the empty clearing, wondering what had befallen the youngest Winchester.

            “He shouldn’t have come here alone,” said a masculine voice, from directly behind him.

            Giles jumped and spun around, breathing hard. “Angel,” he snapped, “it’s best not to startle a man who is in possession of a loaded gun.”

            “I even warned him that a hellmouth was the last place he needed to be,” continued Giles’s unwanted companion. Angel, the mysterious vampire who dogged Buffy’s footsteps, stood a yard away from him. The vampire’s large, dark eyes watched Giles as he straightened his jacket and adjusted his glasses.

            “Why would you approach Sam at all?” asked Giles. “And if you knew it was unwise for him to come here alone, why didn’t you stop him?”

            “I tried to help him,” Angel said, looking frustrated. “But it’s not like I could tell him who or what I was. That would have made him run away from me faster.”

            Giles couldn’t argue with that statement. A hunter would never trust a vampire. “What happened to him?” he demanded.

            Angel sighed. “It was Spike.”

            Giles felt dread crawl along his spine. “Spike?”

“And Drusilla.”

The watcher’s face paled. “Angel, is he dead?”

“No,” Angel said, and he sounded relieved, too. “At least, not yet. They just knocked him out and dragged him off. I don’t know why.”

“You were here, and you just let them take him?”

“No, I wasn’t here,” Angel said, his dark eyes grave. “I got here just in time to hear Drusilla singing as they ran off.”

Giles gave him a shrewd look. “You have your suspicions about why they didn’t kill him outright,” he said at length.

“There’s a number of reasons why those two would want to capture a hunter, none of which are good,” Angel said, “and capturing the son of John Winchester would be icing on the cake. The man has earned quite the reputation with our kind. Put that with the fact that Sam…” The vampire trailed off, and Giles saw a flicker of hesitation on the other man’s face. “Sam’s different. And vampires can sense it.”

 Giles had stopped listening. “We must get him back. If he’s been captured for even a few hours, it may be too late already.”

“This whole thing could be a setup, Giles,” Angel said, warningly.

“That’s hardly relevant to what we have to do,” Giles said, coolly. “Whether it’s a trap or not, we can’t let anyone remain at Spike’s mercy.”

“I know,” Angel said. “But just think it through before you charge in there. And make Dean Winchester think it through, too.” He hesitated once more, then he said, “I’ll go to the warehouse and find out what they’re doing to him. Don’t do anything rash until I contact you.” And with that final thought, the vampire turned and left the clearing.

Giles ran all the way back to his car. He flew through town at a speed which would have drawn police cars onto his tail like flies to rotten meat if there had been any well-meaning officers around. When he arrived back at the school, he barreled his way through the hallways until he hit the library doors. He flung himself into the library like the hounds of Hell were at his back. When he stood in the doorway, gasping for air, his gathered colleagues all stood in alarm.

“Giles, what is it?” asked Jenny, her eyes wide.

Dean eyed all the empty space beside and behind Giles and immediately guessed the truth. “Where’s Sam?” he asked, sharply.

“Abducted,” Giles wheezed out, “by Spike and Drusilla.”

“What?” Buffy, Willow, and Xander all said at once. “Aw, man,” Xander said, “you gotta be kidding.”

“How would they even know there were hunters in town, Giles?” Buffy asked. “None of us have been on patrol with them.”

“How long has he been missing?” Willow asked, fearfully.

“He’s been gone between one to four hours, I suspect,” Giles said. “Angel told me he was gone. I went to the clearing, and I found the gun I had lent him.” He put a hand to his forehead. “This case has just taken a very unpredictable turn.”

“What are you talking about?” Dean said. His voice had dropped several notes lower, and his body suddenly seemed to take up more space than it had a moment before. Everyone looked at him somewhat nervously. “Where is my brother?”

Giles knew there was no good way to break the news to the older Winchester. “He’s been taken by vampires,” he said.

“Not just any vampires,” Harry said, quietly. The wizard stood beside Dean and didn’t seem intimidated by the hunter’s sudden change in mood. “Spike and Drusilla are infamous in magical circles. They’re dangerous and they know it, and they never get caught.”

“Well, their luck’s just run out,” Dean said, without any bravado. His eyes were filled with cold certainty. For the first time since he had met the younger man, Giles was unnerved by him.

“Dean,” Giles said, “I know you want to rescue your brother—I do as well—but we need to think very carefully about how we want to approach this matter-“

“How ‘bout this? We go in, we waste them, and we get Sam back,” Dean said. “End of story.”

“Seems like a solid plan,” Harry said, just as deadly serious.

“Angel has gone to survey the warehouse for us,” Giles said. “He’ll have useful information and he’ll be back to give it to us in a few minutes.”

Buffy went to the weapon storage area of the library and started loading up on stakes and crossbow bolts. Willow and Xander silently helped her. Xander wordlessly handed Dean a crossbow of his own, complete with arrows. The hunter inspected the weapon, found it acceptable, and strapped it onto his back. Giles found his own weapons. Harry prepared his large staff and shorter rod with some sort of defensive spells. With the exception of Cordelia and Miss Calendar, the entire crew had armed themselves in minutes. Giles was mildly disturbed at his colleagues’ ability to resemble a witch-hunting mob with so little hassle, but he wasn’t disturbed enough to make them stop.

Just as Dean said, “Okay, I’m done waiting for this Angel character,” the door to the library swung open. Everyone expected Angel to glide in with his mysterious aura and romantic features.

No one had expected Sam Winchester to step calmly into the library, covered in dust and the odd splotch of blood. “Wow,” he said, blinking at the array of weapons in hand, “looks like I got out of there just in time. What were you guys going to do, storm the castle?”

No one moved; they were all too stunned to respond. Finally, Dean said, “Sam. Um, we all thought you got kidnapped by some evil SOBs.”

“Oh, I was.”

There was another long silence, and then Giles dropped his crossbow and cleared his throat. “Er, I suppose it’s safe to assume you’re no longer in danger?”

 Sam had the grace to look embarrassed by all the attention. “Yeah, that’d be a safe bet, Giles.”

The awkward moment was broken by the arrival of Angel, who took one look at Sam and said, “I think I nearly broke a rib laughing, watching a human humiliate Spike for the first time in a hundred years.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Halfway across town, in the dingy vampire warehouse, Drusilla screamed at the top of her lungs and pounded her palms against the inside of the coffin Sam Winchester had trapped her in with a combination of silver and holy water.

“Calm down, love,” Spike said, through gritted teeth. He lunged forward and was once again restrained by the chains wrapped tightly around his body, tying him to one of the warehouse’s support pillars. “Stupid bloody hunter boy and his stupid bloody tricks. I mean, who carries around a crucifix, a saint medallion, consecrated salt, _and_ holy water all at the same time?” He tilted his head back and yelled, “A paranoid repressed Catholic, that’s who!”

“Spike,” Drusilla sobbed, miserably, from within her funereal prison.

“It’s all right, baby,” Spike called back. “Spike’ll get you out, don’t you fret.” Then he slammed his head against the pillar in frustration. “That kid has bought himself a one-way ticket to Torture Town,” the vampire hissed, “and the fare’s non-refundable. I was gonna let Dru have a little fun, but then I was gonna turn him, he’d be fine all vampired up, but nooo, then he has to go and do this!” He slid further down into his chains and growled, “I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little brother, too. And this time, I’ll bloody well search you before I go for the jugular!”

 

 


	11. Harry Talks About Metrosexuals

“I don’t know,” Harry said, from his position on the floor of the library, “I’m just saying, something about that Papadopoulos guy just didn’t sit well with me.”

“You mean other than his dorktastic name?” Snorted Dean. He picked up his small bag of Cheetos and dumped the last shavings into his mouth. “Papadopoulos,” he snickered. “If that was my last name, the first thing I’d do when I turned eighteen was get it changed to ‘Smith.’”

“’Winchester’ isn’t exactly a common surname,” Sam pointed out. He had settled himself on the stairs leading to the upper level of the library. Seating was scarce with a group their size, so the men had given up the real seats to Willow, Buffy, Cordelia, and Miss Calendar. Xander had remained in his chair, either out of obliviousness or stubbornness.

“Yeah, but our last name is cool,” Dean answered. “There’s a big difference between some vaguely dirty-sounding Greek name and the name of a classic American firearm.”

“What about Mister Papadopoulos set you off, Harry?” Miss Calendar asked. After their brief but informative discussion on techno-pagans, Jenny and Harry had hit it off rather well.

The wizard stared at the ceiling in thought. “Well, his appearance just didn’t fit the message he was trying to deliver. He looked like he just got done with a photoshoot for Teen Vogue, not like he wanted to talk seriously to a group of teens about the dangers of casual sex. He looked—“

“Like a gigolo,” Xander inserted, helpfully.

“Sexy,” Harry finished, like Xander hadn’t spoken. “Now, I don’t know what the kids are into these days, but I’m guessing it’s somewhere along the lines of metrosexual, not lumberjack.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Cordelia muttered, “manly man is looking _pretty_ good, right now.” From his position upside down against the same stairs on which Sam sat, Dean fiddled with a knife and generally looked attractive to the[ teenage girls](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WkL7Fkigfn8&list=PLRc4V0C5w4duYXz4z43969ia6JVvsVjvG&index=18) in the room…or at least to Cordelia. She slammed the book in front of her shut and said, “So this Papaloofah guy might be a pervert. What does that have to do with the human sacrifice gig?”

“Well, it all just seems a little too coincidental to me,” Harry said. “The spring fling just happens to be chaperoned by the abstinence league and it also just happens to be scheduled on the spring equinox. I’m too lazy to do the math right now, but that’s some pretty high probability right there. What are the odds all three of those things just happened by chance?”

“So, you think the abstinence league is the _sex cult_?” Buffy asked. When everyone stared at her, she stammered, “Just to be clear, because that’s kind of where my brain juice was chugging, too.”

“It does make a certain demented, ghoulish sense,” Giles said, reluctantly. “After all, what better way to get the name and personal information of every virgin in the school than to form a false abstinence league?”

Dean whistled. “Wow. That is so evil. I mean, the virgins would probably be pretty easy to spot, anyway, but still, that’s taking the creepy factor of this case to a new level.”

“Easy to spot?” Willow asked, nervously. “Easy to spot how? How do you spot virgins? Um, not like I’d have any personal interest in that information--”

“Don’t worry about it, Willow,” Xander said, glaring at Dean. “Clearly, picking out virgins is also on a hunter’s resume. Sounds borderline pedophilic, to me, but hey—“

“Dude, chill,” Dean said. “Everybody’s a virgin at some point in their life. It’s not a personal attack if I said I could tell someone’s a virgin.”

Xander flushed. “No, but you have to admit it sounds a little skeevy!”

“Oh, for crying out loud, Xander,” Buffy said, “give it a rest. Dean just means that the kids who aren’t sucking face against the school lockers aren’t hard to pick out of the crowd. They’re usually the ones with a solitary hobby like working with computers or reading Star Trek books.”

“Why go to all the trouble of forming an abstinence league?” Dean went on. “Why not just get the psycho cheerleader bait to find out for them through the grapevine?”

“Well, with an organized group, the cultists would have a perfect excuse to be present at the spring fling,” Giles reasoned out, slowly. “They could all be chaperones with no one the wiser of their true motives.”

“Until it’s too late,” Willow said.

“Thanks for that, Will,” Xander said.

“This is all just speculation, though,” Sam said. “Giles and I can’t positively identify anyone from the ritual we saw because everyone was painted blue and—um—“

“Naked,” Giles said. “And oddly enough, seeing someone naked does not translate into recognizing them fully clothed.”

“We didn’t exactly look at them long enough to memorize their faces, anyway,” Sam said, with a cough.

“Maybe the best idea would be to look into the league’s members and find out who they are,” Miss Calendar suggested. “That could point us toward their motives for being in the league. Maybe they really are clean and we’re just reading too much into the whole ‘shadow-sex-cult’ thing.”

Buffy sighed. “With the way our luck runs, Miss Calendar, it ain’t likely.”  
            “I can’t argue with that logic,” Miss Calendar said. “But all the same, we need to be thorough. We’re talking about accusing potentially innocent people of human sacrifice.”

“It should be simple enough to do a web search on the S.A.P.S. League,” Willow said. “We can get the member roster and then do some hacking into the police department—um,” she looked at the newcomers guiltily, “I mean, some totally legal, aboveboard, completely innocent net surfing—“

“Don’t even bother, kid,” Harry said. “The damage is done.”

“Besides, it’s not like we care if you hack into police records,” Dean said. “We do it all the time. Well, we don’t: Sam does. He’s the computer whiz.”

Willow looked up hopefully at Sam. “What’s the tightest security you’ve broken?”

Sam grimaced. “I’m not sure I should—“

“It was the Pentagon, wasn’t it?” Harry asked.

            “No!” Sam said, defensively. “Just the Department of Defense, and it was one time.”

            Harry grinned. “Just the DOD, he says. Sam, you maverick.”

            “You’re an actual threat to national security,” Xander said. “Do we say ‘Congratulations’, here, or ‘God help us’?”

            Willow’s eyes were huge. “I hope I can break into the DOD server some day.”

“What shining examples of adulthood you are, gentlemen,” Giles said, with delicate sarcasm.

“I don’t see you putting a lid on Willow’s net surfing, Giles,” Dean said.

“I would most certainly draw the line at classified government intelligence,” Giles said, indignantly.

Dean scowled. “It was for a job, not for kicks.”

“Well, that makes it all better, then.”

When Dean made to answer, Sam cut in with, “Come on, Willow, let’s ditch the argumentative losers and go to the public library. We’ll actually get some real research done if we can concentrate.”

Willow shot up from her chair like she’d been set on fire. “Okay! You bring the computer, I’ll bring the energy drinks.”

“You’re ditching me? Again?” Dean asked, as Sam stood. “Sam…”

“Don’t whine at me, Dean. You can stay here and argue with Giles some more.” Sam held out his hand. “Keys.”

Dean actually looked pained. “You’re taking the Impala, too?”

“Yep. Keys.” Wordlessly, Dean tossed his brother the car keys. Sam caught them neatly and waited for Willow to come back from the vending machine. He turned to Miss Calendar and asked, “Do you want to come, too? I heard you were the code expert.”

Miss Calendar smiled. “I’m flattered. But I think I’ll draw too much attention to you two at the library. Without me, you can have a sibling cover story.”

Willow nodded and adopted a shifty look. “Oh, a cover story. Right, we’ll probably need a cover story, so no one catches on to our conniving ways.” She looked up at Sam. “Do you have any objections to being a first cousin in the Rosenberg family? Because we could also do long lost sibling, but honestly, that’s going to be hard to sell.”

Sam fought back a laugh and said, “Sure, cousin works for me.”

Willow nodded. “All right then, ‘cousin’,” she winked on the word ‘cousin’. “Let’s go to the library to ‘study’.” Together, the two left one library for another.

Dean stared after his brother, his brow lined with worry. “He just got nabbed by vampires,” he reminded the room in general.

“Vampires he chained up,” Harry said. “We’ll check in on them both in an hour or two, Dean. Relax.”

“I am relaxed,” the elder Winchester muttered, unconvincingly. “I’m so relaxed, I’m about to fall asleep.”

Everyone else ignored the tete-a-tete. “So, Miss Calendar, think you can get that attendance list for us?” asked Buffy. “Because I think stake-outs on the virgins who went to the sex talk is the best idea right now.”

“Sure thing,” Miss Calendar said. “Peter won’t have a problem giving me a copy.”

Buffy nodded. “Let’s get that done ASAP.” Miss Calendar went to the phone in the library, called Mister Bukowski’s number, and easily obtained the promise of a copy of the sign-in sheet on the next school day. “I think our next step should be to stake out that clearing, too,” the slayer continued. “Who wants to do what? Surveillance on the virgins or a camp-out in the park?”

“Me and Thomas will take the park,” Harry volunteered. “No sense in you young whipper-snappers staying out late on a school night.”

“Hey, wasn’t this infamous Thomas supposed to be here, today?” asked Miss Calendar, with raised eyebrows.

“He’s a believer in fashionably late,” Harry said, dryly. “But he’ll be here.” He didn’t add that Thomas wanted to wait for the school to completely clear of kids and teachers before he showed up.

“I would like to make another suggestion to the plan,” Giles said, clearing his throat. “Those of us who signed on as chaperones should do some more, er, hands-on investigation into the abstinence league. I think we should meet the members and express our interest to join their ranks.”

Dean righted himself on the stairs. “What, go undercover?”

“If need be, yes,” Giles said. “If the league is not involved in the rituals, then our investigation won’t do them any harm. If they are involved, however, we’ll be able to sabotage the operation from within, thereby reducing the risk of the deaths of more innocent children.”

“But only you, Dean, and Harry volunteered as chaperones,” Miss Calendar protested. “That’s not enough of us to be adequate backup if they catch on. What happens if they figure out you’re moles? These people are perfectly okay with killing anyone as long as it’s convenient.”

“A wizard of Harry Dresden’s caliber alone would be quite enough to defend against one mob of ordinary humans,” Giles said, confidently. “With mine and Dean’s knowledge of self-defense and arcane protection, I should think we’ll be fine.”

“Aw, Rupert,” Harry said, “you’re making me blush.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Dean said, holding up one hand in protest. “You want us to join an abstinence league? _Us_?”

“A sex cult masquerading as an abstinence league,” Giles corrected him.

“Gonna be honest, here,” Dean said. “Either one of those prospects is none too appealing to me. I mean, you do realize we might have to strip naked and paint ourselves blue? _And_ get it on with some whacko tantric pagans?”

Put in those terms, the concept made everyone in the room blush scarlet. “Ugh, that’s a mental image I really could do without,” Buffy groaned, putting her hands to her eyes.

“I think I threw up a little in my mouth,” Xander said, skin green.

Giles looked pale, but his mouth firmed up and his eyes flashed. “If that’s what it takes to stop these appalling sacrifices, then that’s what we’ll do.”

“I don’t like the idea any more than you do, Dean,” Harry said, “but Giles is right. As the oldest and most worldly in this group, it’s really our responsibility to take one for the team.”

“Hey,” Buffy said, thoughtfully, “one of us kids could go undercover, too. You know, as a virgin.”

This suggestion was met with instant disapproval. “No, Buffy,” Giles said, with more finality than usual.

“Nope,” Dean said. “If I’m going to join a friggin’ sex cult in the name of human decency, then there’s no way I’m doing it in front of a minor. I already have enough strikes on my permanent record.”

“I would be the perfect undercover sacrifice,” Buffy argued, reasonably enough. “I’m stronger and faster than any of you. I could make a getaway, or duke the priest if I had to.”

“One problem with this plan, Buff,” Xander said. “You’re a girl. This cult only offs male virgins.” He quickly added, “And no offense, guys, but I’m not taking one for the team, in this instance. So no undercover sacrifices here.” Xander blushed and stammered, “Not that I’m admitting to being a virgin, because I’m not! I just fit the profile, you know!”

“Someone else fits the profile, too, really,” Buffy said, leaning back in her chair. “Dean, how old is Sam?”

“Twenty-two,” Dean said, flatly. “And the answer is no.”

“Don’t you think Sam should be the one to say yea or nay?”

“Sam is never going to hear about this stupid idea of yours, Summers,” the elder Winchester growled. “None of us is going to volunteer to be the sacrifice, got it? That’s just too much crazy for one plan to handle.”

“I’m pretty sure Sam can take care of himself,” Xander pointed out. “He did just hang Spike and Drusilla out to dry all by his lonesome.”

“Forget it! It’s not going to happen.”

“Are all older brothers this over-protective, or is it just you?” Xander laughed.

“Guys,” Miss Calendar interrupted, firmly, “leave Dean alone. If it was your sibling that we all wanted to throw on an altar, I’m sure you’d be singing a different tune.”

“Yeah, lay off, already,” Cordelia said, but it was impossible to tell whether her support for Dean was from true sympathy or hormones. “Besides, no one’s talking about my pivotal role in this plan.” When everyone looked at her in confusion, she huffed. “I’m going to The Bronze tonight? To sniff out the bait girl? Man, you people are slow.”

“How could we forget about Cordelia, super-spy?” Xander said.

“It just goes to show how underappreciated I am,” Cordelia sighed. “But it’s okay. I don’t do this for the glory.”

“We’re all impressed by your willingness to go to the top hangout in town and gossip for a couple hours, Cordelia,” Buffy said, sweetly. “Meanwhile, I’ll be patrolling and Harry will be stuck out in the woods all night.”

“I think the lesson to be learned from this plan,” Giles cut in, smoothly, “is that we can all do our part in a manner which plays to our strengths. Let’s remember that we’re trying to stop a group of evil men and women from murdering teenage boys.”

“Right you are, Giles,” Harry said. He stretched and his back popped loudly. Everyone winced. “Our priority is to keep this cult from killing more people and wreaking havoc on the town.” There came a polite knock on the library doors. Everyone started, then collectively rolled their eyes at their own jumpiness. “That’ll be Thomas,” Harry said. “Hopefully.” Giles went to the doors and opened them, only to step back reflexively as [the newcomer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aOl4oeHZnBk&list=PLRc4V0C5w4duYXz4z43969ia6JVvsVjvG&index=2) to the meeting entered the room.

The man was several inches shorter than Harry himself, but his height was secondary to his sheer level of sex appeal. The man could have been as short as Willow and would have drawn every eye in the room, regardless. His hair was just a shade darker than Harry’s, but his skin was paler, and his eyes were a distinct shade of grey. To Jenny Calendar, he looked like the love interest from a gothic novel. To Cordelia, he looked like a bad boy fantasy made flesh. To Buffy, he looked like a challenge. Even though Dean had already met the man, he couldn’t help but admit once again that the guy was even attractive to a heterosexual male.

As for Giles, his eyes were drawn to the pentagram amulet on the man’s chest. It was a twin for the amulet that dangled down Harry’s sternum. After a moment, Giles noticed something else: the man was drenched, his shirt and jeans stuck to his frame like they had been painted on. Giles abruptly colored at staring at the man’s chest.

“So,” the man said, and Giles noted that his voice was remarkably similar to Harry’s in intonation. “It’s raining. Again.” He sounded irritated. No one really noticed: they were all staring at his clothes. He flung his hair back so it didn’t cling to his face. The gesture looked like it belonged in a slow-motion scene from an artistic exploitation film.

“Everyone,” Harry said, calmly, “this is Thomas Raith. And you can all pick your jaws up off the floor, now.” He turned to Thomas. “I swear, you planned this thunderstorm out for a dramatic entrance.”

“That would be a neat trick,” Thomas said. “Maybe the actual wizard in the room could tell me how to do that.”

“Oh, haha. Nice try. I’m not enabling this flair for over the top first introductions.”

“Says the man who thinks blowing things up is a perfectly acceptable way to get someone’s attention.”

“ _You’re_ Thomas?” Cordelia demanded, somewhat rudely. “Harry made you sound like a hundred year old librarian!” She sounded personally offended by Thomas’s unbelievable attractiveness.

“Well, Thomas is really a crazy old cat lady in his soul,” Harry said.

“Thanks, Harry,” Thomas said. He reached into his water-logged jeans and pulled out a wad of paper. “Well, I brought some research of my own, but I doubt it survived the trip from my car to the parking lot.”

“ _I’m_ not gonna survive all these beautiful men,” muttered Cordelia, to herself. “Am I supposed to just ignore them? Do they think I’m made of stone?”

“Here,” Giles said. He took the soaked papers from Thomas. “I have a heat lamp for just such emergencies as this.” He coughed. “I’m Rupert Giles, by the way. I’m the librarian—“

“And the watcher,” Thomas said. “So where’s the slayer?” When they all looked startled, he said, “Harry told me all about the hellmouth. You don’t have to look at me like I’m a psychic.”

“Harry,” Miss Calendar said, carefully, “do you tell Thomas everything about everything?”

“Pretty much,” Harry said, cheerfully.

“I’m Buffy, the slayer,” Buffy said. She didn’t get up from her chair, but she waved. “And you’re Harry’s mysterious traveling partner.”

“We all kind of thought you were made up, for a while,” Xander said.

Thomas smiled. It was a genuine smile, and that probably made it even prettier than an artifice would have been to the interested parties in the room. “Well, you can all rest assured: I’m not Harry’s imaginary friend.”

“You’re a pain in my butt, is what you are,” Harry said, good-naturedly. “Come here and let me update you on the situation.”

Thomas was brought up to speed quickly. He listened attentively to Harry’s summary of the case and only interrupted to snicker at the name ‘Papadopoulos’ just like everyone else had. He threw in a few observations that hadn’t occurred to the others, such as the fact that the items at the ritual pointed to the worship of a god of celebrations, such as the Greek god Dionysus. “That would explain the close relationship to booze and the victim of the sacrifice,” he said. “Those gods weren’t strictly speaking fertility gods, but they would certainly gather a promiscuous type of following.”

“Good point,” Giles said, impressed. “Perhaps the deity they worship is not interested in procreation as much as sheer hedonism.”

“Sex, booze, and feasting,” Harry said. “Pretty much the golden trio of chaos gods.”

“One of the best ways to make people lose control is to give them alcohol,” Thomas said, simply. “So the drink and the gods go hand in hand.”

Giles added ‘alcohol as worship’ to the case board as a qualifier to the ritual. “Tonight, Miss Calendar and I can make a list of possible gods that the cult might worship and begin to formulate some counter-worship to keep the god at bay,” he said. “Everyone else…well, you have your assignments. You don’t need me to give you a task list.”

“We’re going to stake out the ritual clearing,” Harry told Thomas.

“Great,” Thomas said. “I guess I won’t bother changing, then.”

“I’ll patrol the town,” Buffy said. “See if I can spot any suspicious looking people headed toward the park.”

Dean sighed. “I might as well go with you, since Sam is gonna be at the library for hours.”

“I can help Buffy patrol,” Xander said, somewhat resentfully. “I do it all the time.”

Dean shrugged. “Sure, three’s better than two, anyway.” Xander didn’t respond, but his sullen look clearly said that wasn’t what he had in mind at all.

“You kids have fun,” Jenny Calendar said, with a laugh. “And don’t get too wet out there in the rain. Giles and I will just be inside, nice and warm, doing the heavy lifting on this case.”

“Miss Calendar,” Buffy said, “sometimes you can be kind of evil.”


	12. Four Men in a Hotel Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are beginning to heat up...

The night wore away quickly. The investigators all performed their separate duties with a minimal amount of drama. Each group went about their business in a fairly characteristic way.

Sam and Willow labored at the computer, stopping only to drain their energy drinks and to exchange the occasional nerdy conversation about rituals, exorcisms, and the best colleges on the West Coast. For once, Willow got to talk about her true passions in life—school and the pursuit of knowledge—without interruption. It made her appreciate the fact that Sam Winchester was quite the intellectual, and it seemed like he had been starved for some halfway normal conversation as well. And if she also noticed that Sam was really hot when he spoke Latin—well, no one but Willow had to know that. She could keep inside thoughts inside, after all.

In the rainy outside world, Buffy, Dean, and Xander patrolled Sunnydale, sometimes on foot and sometimes in the Impala. The elder Winchester seemed at ease in the role of night watchman: he bought coffee for all three of them and talked about nothing while they searched for suspicious activity. Buffy found herself relaxing in the man’s presence, comforted by the sound of his voice and the confident way he held his handgun. Dean told stories about other hunts, switching between funny encounters and terrifying near-misses. In spite of herself, Buffy identified with the hunter’s stories. She even started to laugh along and join in with stories of her own. Through the night, Xander remained tight-lipped and borderline-rude to Dean. It seemed that the more Buffy unwound, the more Xander tightened up. Buffy wanted to call the teenager out on his blatant jealousy, but she let it go for Dean’s sake. The hunter wasn’t trying to seduce Buffy and he wasn’t trying to antagonize Xander, so she didn’t need to point out Xander’s erroneous thinking.

In the clearing at Sunnydale Nature Trail Park, Thomas Raith and Harry Dresden were similarly armed with coffee and a small arsenal. The two brothers bickered for a while about which character from the Shakespeare play _Much Ado About Nothing_ was most entertaining. They argued about Colt pistols versus Derringers as self-defense weapons. They predicted which member of their newfound investigative band would snap first under the strain of so many strong personalities in one group. “You will, obviously,” Thomas said. “You haven’t got time for BS, Harry. Your fuse can be a little short.”

“Nah,” Harry said. “I’m the Gandalf in this situation, and therefore I have more poise and gravitas. I think it’ll be one of the kids. Maybe Xander, poor jealous little punk that he is. He’s got it in for Dean.”

“So does every teenage boy who ever feels threatened by an intriguing older male,” Thomas said, amused.

“You speak from experience?”

“Obviously. But I really doubt Xander will try to kill Dean like I tried to kill my rival.” Harry have him a sidelong glance and Thomas said, “To be fair, he was trying to kill me first.”

“Your childhood is the stuff of nightmares, man.”

“You’re telling me.” There was silence, and then Thomas glanced at his watch and said, “You know, I don’t think the cultists are going to show. It’s two o’clock.”

Harry checked the directions Giles had scribbled on a piece of paper. “This is definitely the right clearing.”

“Sam and Giles must have scared them off their stomping grounds with the whole gunshot thing.”

Harry frowned. “I feel like there’s something I could be doing to make this whole process faster.”

Thomas arched an eyebrow. “Something magic-related? Like what? You don’t have a clue who these people are. You can’t track them.”

“And it’s raining,” sighed Harry. “Running water would wash away any traces of the spell before we could find them, anyway.”

“You’ll just have to play this one like a regular sleuth until we figure out how to keep the goddess at bay.”

“And meanwhile, some poor kid dies.” Harry scowled fiercely into the night. “Hellmouths are nasty places, Thomas. I know what you meant now when we got to Sunnydale: the air itself here feels…tainted.” Together, the brothers watched an empty clearing, shivering in the steady rain.

At the school library, Giles and Jenny worked at putting together their list of possible deities from every pagan lexicon in Giles’s collection. Considering the sex of the human sacrifices, they stuck to female deities alone, but even with that qualifier, they still had an impossibly long list. Giles, being the watcher, took a different categorization approach to Jenny, the neo-pagan. They butted heads several times over which gods fit the bill of a chaos-driven, hedonistic deity. They found that they enjoyed the intellectual power struggle. In order not to lose their heads, they took frequent tea breaks (which resulted in frequent bathroom breaks). Finally, at three o’clock in the morning, they called it quits. Jenny let Giles walk her to her car, where they stood and talked about lesson plans and everything but the subtle spark of attraction between them. Giles was happy to see that through the whole night, Jenny didn’t mention Harry Dresden once. Some petty little part of the watcher didn’t want to share her with the wizard at all.

Morning broke with its usual verve, but the night watchmen, researchers, and vigil keepers were less than enthused with its appearance. The teenagers dragged themselves out of bed for the final day of school before the spring fling. The adults got to sleep in. Not even Giles stirred until well past nine o’clock. The exception was Miss Calendar, who was forced to be at school even earlier than the kids. When the rest of the gang did rise, they congregated in the Winchesters’ hotel room, not the school library. The hotel suite was a few rooms down from Thomas and Harry’s economy-style room, which allowed both men to sleep in ‘til half past noon. They both shuffled down the hallway and pounded half-heartedly on the Winchesters’ door. Dean opened the door half-asleep, pointed at the cramped couch in the corner of the suite, and hauled himself away to the bathroom to make himself into a presentable human being. The two guests sat where they were directed. Sam hadn’t even stirred, passed out on the furthest bed from the door.

Harry rose, went to the foot of Sam’s bed, sat down, and waited. It didn’t take long for Sam to sense the weight on the end of the bed. When he showed signs of waking, Harry said, “Hello, Clarice,” in his best Hannibal Lecter impersonation. Sam yelped out a garbled word and jolted himself off the side of the bed.

While Harry laughed and Sam sputtered in indignation, Thomas said, “You jerk.”

“Dean watched _Silence of the Lambs_ way too young,” Harry said. “He didn’t know Sam was watching it behind the couch. I only know because Sammy told me a long time ago that it gave him nightmares for weeks.”

“Don’t call me Sammy,” Sam mumbled, from his place on the floor. “And get out of my hotel room.”

“We’re here for the pow-wow, kid.”

“If we’re going to start in on the case right away, I need some coffee,” Sam said, and rolled to his feet.

“Thomas,” Harry said, “go get some coffee, please.”

“All good things to those who wait,” Thomas said, dryly, but he rose and left the room to track down some hotel-grade caffeine.

Harry let Sam straighten himself out before he turned speculative eyes on the younger man. Sam shifted a bit and then said, “What, Harry?” in a peevish tone.

“When I knew you, you were the nicest kid,” Harry said. “You had your temper tantrums, obviously—I think you’re more strong-willed than me, and that’s saying something—but you were never a mean kid, Sam.” He paused, then pressed, “You were never a _bad_ kid, Sam.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “What has Dean told you about me?”

“Not much,” Harry said. “But I can tell he’s worried about you. You’ve had bad dreams. You’re worried about what that thing did to you, when it murdered your mother.”

Sam avoided eye contact. “I don’t want to talk about this, Harry.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s bad timing. But I just wanted you to know…” The older man shrugged, uncomfortably. “Nightmares are portents, but sometimes they’re just nightmares. And some people wrestle with the darkness, Sam, especially people with special abilities. I’m one of them. So…you know, if you ever want to talk about it…I’ve got a landline at my apartment. I’ll give you the number, before we split town.”

Dean burst back into the room with a cheery whistle, looking much too fresh after an all-nighter. “We need coffee!” he declared, as he put on his boots.

“Thomas is already on the coffee run,” Harry said, casually, like he hadn’t just had a one-way heart to heart with Sam.

Dean’s eyebrows twitched at the mention of Thomas. He told Sam, “You know, I hit that dude with my car on the night we got into town.”

“What?” Sam said, in disbelief.

“Yeah, and he was totally fine. Didn’t even act like it hurt.” He leveled a look at Harry. “Weird, huh?”

Harry looked back, equally hard to read. “Thomas is his own kind of special.”

“’Special.’ Yeah, that’s the word I’d use.”

“Kind of like Sam is special,” Harry went on. “We all have our little quirks, Dean.”

Dean’s eyes had shuttered at the mention of Sam’s unique nature, and he stopped his line of questioning. Sam took a moment to wonder over the fact that even though they hadn’t seen Harry for nearly fifteen years, he still had the power to shut Dean down faster than anyone, their father included. To his surprise, Sam felt a twinge of anger towards Harry on his brother’s behalf. No one should be able to silence Dean; that power simply went against nature.

Thankfully, Thomas returned before the silence in the room could turn into tension. Thomas handed out coffee cups and everyone busied themselves with pouring some caffeine into their guts before they declared the day officially started. For hotel fare, the brew was closer to actual coffee than percolated asphalt, which made it good enough for the four men. Dean broke the silence, as usual. “So, I really hope somebody hit pay dirt last night, because if not, we all just wasted an entire night on the hellmouth.”

“Sorry,” Harry said, “we got nothin’. The cultists either re-located the rituals or they decided to skip a night of sacrifice in case the cops were staking out their clearing.”

“Unfortunately, they didn’t skip a night,” Thomas said. He dropped a newspaper onto Sam’s bed where they all sat. “I saw this in the hotel lobby.” The newspaper headline was bold and predictably sensational: SHOCKING MURDER OF TEENAGE BOY, TOWN IN TURMOIL.

Dean cursed, Sam ran a hand through his hair tiredly, and Harry clenched his jaw. Thomas merely pointed to the article and said, “The boy’s body was recovered, this time. The police have declared the other missing boys as potential victims, too. Of course, they suspect a serial killer.”

“They always think it’s a serial killer,” Dean said.

“Did they find the murder weapon?” asked Sam.

“No.” Thomas scanned the article and said, “The body was found on a table in the abandoned ranger’s cabin on the edge of the town park. No weapon, no DNA, nothing except a whiskey bottle filled with blood.” His face darkened. “Harry, we were there at the same park when this happened—“

“I know,” snapped Harry. “We were sitting in the freaking rain, watching an empty clearing.” He stood up and paced around the room, full of bitter energy. “They’re not going to get away with this,” he told them. “They can’t just knock off however many kids they want and chalk it up to a sacrifice well done. We’re going to find these people.”

“That’s why we’re here,” Dean said. He sounded calm, but Sam knew better. “Sam, what did you and your study-buddy find last night?”

“Papadopoulos is clean,” Sam said. “Nothing in the Sunnydale police records indicates a criminal history. The rest of the abstinence league are a mixed bag—a DUI here, a domestic dispute there. Nothing to point toward the kind of occult background needed for this type of ritualistic killing. But it’s usually not the cons in the county jail we need to worry about when we’re hunting. It’s the practitioners who never get caught that do the real damage.”

“Harry,” Thomas said, “exactly what kind of magical practitioner are we looking for?”

Harry kept pacing, but his answer was quick and focused. “The priest at the ritual wouldn’t necessarily have to have any magical talent at all. People have been worshipping minor gods for centuries, and the priest was usually an elder in the town, not someone chosen for their magical gifts. For the type of summoning ritual these cultists have been using, the focal point is a blood sacrifice and the specific kind of energy produced by wild, uninhibited sex. That kind of magic can be made by someone with little to no talent. It’s more the number of people involved, the attention to detail in the ritual, and the sheer enthusiasm of the participants that creates the energy.”

“Papadopoulos is a [Greek name](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Papadopoulos),” Sam said, in a seemingly far-afield comment.

“That’s great, Sam,” Dean said, deadpan.

Sam rolled his eyes. “ _So_ , Dean, it’s possible the deity we’re looking for is Greek in origin. Obviously. Also, the abstinence league has been around for less than two years, and they’ve never had a big part in community events until this year’s spring fling. That’s about the sum of my research efforts.”

“Well, that’s a thought,” Harry said, coming to a stop with his arms folded. “If we could narrow the list down to Greek gods only that would make it a workable number. We need to get with Giles and Jenny and see what they came up with.”

“With our powers combined…” Thomas muttered, under his breath. Dean still heard him, and grinned.

“And me and Dean need to see about joining the league, I guess,” Harry said, like approaching the abstinence league was the last thing he wanted to do.

“What’s our cover story?” asked Dean.

Harry shrugged. “No idea. I don’t think either one of us looks old enough to have a kid in high school. Maybe we can go as concerned older brothers.”

“Unless your imaginary sibling is a sister, that’s probably not going to be very convincing,” Sam said.

“Why not, Sammy? I was very concerned about your virginity in high school,” Dean said, snickering. Sam shot him an unimpressed glare.

“We’ll figure something out,” Harry said.

“Papadopoulos is a pharmacist at the local drugstore,” Sam said. “The league’s secretary, Anne Priester, is the pharmacy tech. Either one of them should be able to sign you up.”

 Dean nodded, then stood. “All right. Breakfast first, espionage second.”

  “You want to go right now?” asked Sam, surprised.

   “No time like the present, Sam.”

   “Don’t you think you need a better story, first?”

    “If there’s anyone who can lie on demand, it’s wizards and hunters.” Dean took a swig of his coffee. “We’ll be fine.” He turned to Harry. “Are you cool with drinking the koolaid early this afternoon?”

 “I’m ready,” Harry said. “Just let me put a few minor protection amulets together over breakfast. In the meantime—“ he pointed to Thomas and Sam, “you two: I need you to get some supplies for me. If we’re right and this deity is a chaos goddess, then this goddess might be gearing up for the equinox with some serious mojo. I can make a couple minor protections for me and Dean right now, but anything more substantial is going to take time and resources. I’ve got a few recipes for chaos deterrents in the brainpan, but I’ll need you to gather the ingredients. Ask Jenny to help you find the nearest supply store.”

“Give us a list and we’re your guys,” Thomas said.

Sam’s eyes were alight with interest. “Are you going to make us all amulets? Or is it some sort of large-scale ward—“

Harry wasn’t listening: he was scrawling the ingredients on a piece of motel stationary. “Let Thomas pay for it all,” he told Sam. “He’s got so much money, he doesn’t know what to do with it.”

“I do plenty with it,” Thomas replied.

Dean looked at Sam with a faint hint of concern. “You don’t have to go on the supply run if you don’t want to.”

“Yes, he does,” Harry said. “Sam’s the one with the arcane knowledge. Thomas knows some rudimentary spells, but he’s not on wizard or even hunter level—no offense, Thomas—“

“None taken,” Thomas said. “I know I’m minor league.”

“Don’t worry, Dean,” Sam said. “We’ll be fine.”

“Dude, I’m not a worrier,” Dean said, offended. “Just be careful, all right?”

Sam merely rolled his eyes. Harry handed him the list. Thomas pulled his car keys from his pocket and let Sam exit first. When the two men had left, Harry slurped his coffee and said, “So, as long as there’s pancakes on the menu, I don’t care where we go for breakfast.”

 


	13. Harry Dresden (and Dean) and The Uncomfortable Cover Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Harry go to the pharmacy. They play it by ear. They probably regret it.

The hunter and wizard ate their breakfast in relative peace. They only checked their surroundings for suspicious activity three or four times. They only checked to make sure the salt shaker on the table was full once. Harry set his staff under the table like it was an umbrella, and dean left his jacket on to hide his gun. They both ate more food in one meal than some people ate all day.

The two men entered Harrigan’s, Sunnydale’s old drugstore, a little after one. “How do you want to handle this, kid?” Harry asked, voice low.

“Maybe we should just hit on this Anne chick, make it obvious we’re not about abstinence at all,” Dean said, equally furtive. “If she’s not into it, that may be an indicator that we’re barking up the wrong tree. If not…”

“Dean, grown women are into men, abstinence league or no,” Harry argued. “That doesn’t seem like the surest way to feel these suckers out.”

“If you’ve got any better ideas on how to talk to potential sex maniacs, I’m all ears.”

Harry sighed. “Nope. I got nothing.”

“So we go for the not-so-subtle innuendo and hope it works.”

Harry coughed. “It might be best if you opened up the conversation. Flirting in any form is not my forte.”

They meandered down several aisles. Harry lingered in the painkiller section, pretending to study a bottle while Dean walked up to the clean, white pharmacy counter and waited to be seen by the woman standing there. She was dressed in a white that matched the counter. The stark color nearly washed out her pale features, but she was still a fairly attractive woman. She blinked at them, two rugged men in leather jackets wearing that polite smile all people have when they stand in line at the pharmacy. “Can I help you?” she asked in a low-pitched, musical voice, with a smile of her own.

“Yes, ma’am,” Dean said, and his smile went from polite to charmed. “Would you happen to be Anne Priester?”  

“Yes, that’s me,” Anne said. “Do I know you?”

“Boy do I wish you did,” Dean said, still with that radiant smile. Anne preened a little under his gaze. Harry found it a little unnerving, since Anne had to be several years older than Dean. On the other hand, Harry couldn’t blame her. Dean had the act down pat. “Well, Anne, yesterday we were at the high school to volunteer for the spring fling, and we talked to Anthony, your league president,” Dean explained. “See, me and Harry and our friend Giles were pretty interested in the whole S.A.P.S. gig.”

Anne’s blonde eyebrows rose. “Really?”

“I know, we don’t look like the types,” Dean said. “But we’re gentlemen where it counts, you know.” Behind him, Harry tried his best to look half as respectfully flirty as Dean. He was fairly certain he failed.

Anne reacted well to the charm. “Well, that’s great. We could always use more help with the league in this town—“ She paused. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

“Dean,” Dean said, holding out his hand.

“Dean.” Anne leaned forward to take Dean’s hand, affording him what view of her chest that she could out of the top of her uniform. “I think you’ll be a wonderful asset to the league.” Her blue eyes sparkled, and her smiled widened as Dean’s fingers nearly touched hers.

That’s when Harry swooped in and casually slid his hand into the back pocket of Dean’s jeans. “Now, Dean,” he said, in a teasing voice, “no flirting without me.”

Dean’s hand had frozen in mid-air and his smile had hitched just slightly, but he was too much of a hunter to break character. He manfully went with Harry’s new take on the situation and leaned back against Harry. “I wouldn’t do that, tex,” he said, and shot another one of his charming smiles at Harry.

Anne put her hand down. Rather than express the usual dismay an interested woman might show at finding out the man flirting with her might just be gay, Anne seemed delighted to see Harry. She looked at the hand still lodged in Dean’s pocket and grinned. “And you’re Harry, then?” she asked, happily.

“Yep,” Harry said, with his own easy grin. “Nice to meet you, Anne.”

“Likewise,” Anne said, and her eyes traveled over Harry and Dean once again. “Dean has good taste,” she said at last, with a smirk.

Harry did his best to return the sentiment. “Yes, he does.”

“So, you’re serious about joining the league?”

“I know we probably aren’t the usual crowd,” Dean began.

Anne interrupted him. “Oh, no, I think you’ll fit right in, dear. It’s just that no one really asks to join the league. We usually have to do our own recruitment.” She laughed. “As you can guess, there’s not a whole lot of demand for our sort of education around Sunnydale. It’s a small town. People are set in their ways.”

“Well, I’m a city-goer, myself,” Harry said, and slid his free hand into his duster to pull out the [small talisman](http://r2.washingtoncitypaper.com/files/base/scomm/wcp/image/2008/06/640w/_dev_pubsys_images_1214423712_m_cover_1.jpg) tucked into his coat pocket. “I know a thing or two about trying new things. Maybe I can show the league a few of my tricks?”

Anne leaned close and studied the talisman. It was a tiny knob of ginger which Harry had carved into the shape of a female form. She nodded, slowly. “You’ve convinced me, Harry,” she said. “You’re not from Sunnydale, are you?”

“Nope. I’m here for a couple months to study some of the strange phenomena around this town.” Harry lifted one eyebrow. “And to cause some strange phenomena, too, you know.”

“And Dean came with you?” Anne asked, with another, more obvious look at Dean.

Dean looked back, playing his part well. “I’m just along for the ride, sweetheart. You know how that goes.”

Anne nodded. “How’d you know to contact us?”

“Anthony seemed to think you’d be able to get us in the know pretty quick,” Dean said.

“He didn’t mention you to me,” Anne said. “But he’s been pretty busy, lately.”

“I’ll bet,” Harry said, and only Dean understood the subtext in his voice.

“So, Anthony didn’t have time to mention the date for the next league meeting,” Dean said. “I’m assuming there will be a meeting before the spring fling?”

“There’s one tonight,” Anne said, and then she hesitated. “But I really do need to double-check with Anthony before I give you two formal invites.”

“Of course,” Dean said. “Let me just give you my number so you can call us back.”

“Is that the only time I can call you, Dean?” Anne asked, with a coquettish blink. Clearly, subtlety had dropped from the conversation. Harry was at once relieved and appalled.

Dean persevered in the Winchester fashion: like a dog with a bone in its teeth. “The hotline’s available twenty-four seven, babe,” he said, and then he pushed himself off from the counter. He calmly put his arm around Harry and led him away from the pharmacy. “Feel free to give Anthony our digits, too,” he called, over his shoulder. “Talk to you soon, I hope.”

“You can count on it,” Anne answered.

The wizard and hunter kept up their act until they reached Dean’s car. Then they detached from one another like magnets repelled against their polar ends. “Dude,” Dean said, staring Harry down over the top of the Impala. “Dude. Dude.”

“Reach into your back pocket,” Harry said.

“What? The one you made yourself at home in?”

“Just do it, Dean.”

Dean felt the pocket and pulled out one of the protection amulets Harry had made over breakfast. It was a simple little disc made from a nickel. It had runes carved into it and a tiny dab of salt in the middle. Dean thought of Anne’s impending handshake and the pieces clicked together in his mind. “She was going to put the whammy on me?”

“I had a bad feeling about her touching you,” Harry said, simply. “So…”

“You touched me first.” The two men winced. “That came out wrong,” Dean said. “Do you think she’s a witch?”

“I think it’s safe to say Papadopoulos has a powerful second in command,” Harry said. “One thing’s for sure: the league are definitely not practicing what they preach.”

“What was up with that ginger root, anyway?”

“It’s a fertility symbol. Ginger’s as close to mandrake as I could find on the fly.”

They got into the car. Duran Duran played in the background on Dean’s ancient stereo as they drove away from the drugstore toward the high school. At length, Dean said, “So. We just pretended to be gay pagan thrillseekers who want to crash the sex cult’s party on a Friday night.”

“Technically, we’d be bisexual,” Harry said. “We both were into Anne, after all.”

“Harry, you’re like my brother or my cousin. It’s gonna be hard to act hot for you, man.”

“Oh, it gets easier,” Harry said, darkly.

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s just say I’ve helped Thomas keep up a cover for a long time.”

There was a pause, and then Dean said, “So…he’s straight?”

“Oh, brother,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. “Yes, Dean. He’s straight.”

“He’s just really…”

“Pretty?”

“I was not going to say that, Harry.”

“But it’s true.” Harry stretched out in the front seat. “Hey, be grateful I can man up and take one for the team. That woman looked like she’d be happy to tie you up in the back of the pharmacy and feed you some of the good drugs.”

“This is a nightmare,” Dean said, calmly, as Duran Duran [sang](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oOg5VxrRTi0) about mouths that are alive and juices that are like wine.


	14. Cordelia's Stellar Spy Career

“So, I got us all tickets to the spring fling,” Buffy said, as she sandwiched herself between Xander and Willow on a bench outside school. “And I signed us up to help with the booth setup and breakdown, so we can get inside earlier to scope the place for cultish-ness.”

            “Good thinking, Buffy,” Willow said. She yawned. “Those energy drinks have got the worst crash. I think I drank four yesterday while I was researching.”

            “Did you and the yeti find anything relevant to the cult through your totally legal means of hacking?” asked Xander.

            “Don’t call Sam a yeti, Xander,” Willow said, reprovingly. “And no, not really. None of the abstinence league members have any glaring marks on their permanent records that scream, ‘we’re perverts, arrest us!’”

            “If only it was that simple,” Buffy said. “It’d make our jobs a lot easier.” She pushed her hair back from her face. “Well, I told my mom she wasn’t allowed to come to the spring fling because it wasn’t cool or whatever. You might want to tell your parents, too. Might as well keep as many people as possible from an impending spring equinox-induced ritual.”

            “Way ahead of you,” Xander said. “I even said I was going to help out with face-painting and couldn’t bear the shame of my relatives seeing me.”

            Willow laughed. “I said I was going to be in the dunking booth and I’d die of embarrassment if my dad saw me.”

            “Did Cordelia tell you if she saw anything at The Bronze last night?” Buffy asked her friends.

            “I haven’t seen her since sixth period,” Xander said. “But I’m sure she’ll tell us all about it while Dean Winchester’s cleaning his guns and flexing his…other guns.”

            “Your green is showing, Xander,” Buffy said, dryly.

            Xander blinked. “Huh?”

            “If you acted any more jealous, I think we’d be reporting a first-degree murder.”

            “No way! I’m not jealous of that borderline psychopath hunter.” Xander fiddled with his backpack. “Besides, I think it’d be less ‘murder’ and more ‘justifiable homicide’.”

            Willow snorted. “What have you got against Dean, Xander? I mean, I think if you looked past the gorgeous eyes and pretty face and really nice muscles, you could like him. He’s pretty cool.”

            “He’s the kind of guy who ruins lives,” Xander said, darkly. “I bet he was the bad boy in high school that made it impossible for us decent fellas to get any action—“

            Xander’s tirade was interrupted by the appearance of the Winchesters themselves, followed by Harry and Thomas. “’Sup, kids?” asked Dean, with a smile that made the previous conversation about him seem petty. Even Xander was a little embarrassed by his remarks as the hunter tossed them each an amulet tied to a leather cord. “Me and Harry put together some anti-mojo for you while you’re working the spring fling. We finally figured out that the league has got its own enchantress, and these should protect you against most of her spells.”

              “Thanks, Dean,” Buffy said, happily. “I was telling Willow and Xander that I got us early access to the festival, so we should all get to check the place out together.”

            Having voiced his objections to the teenagers’ presence at the spring fling earlier, Harry said nothing about it now, but his lips tightened noticeably. Thomas nudged him with one shoulder. Harry shot him a look that clearly said to lay off the shoulder-nudging. Thomas smirked back and nudged him again. The only one who noticed this interaction was Sam, who was quickly distracted by an irresistibly excited Willow.

            “Sam! Remember that thing we were talking about?” Willow said, bouncing a little on the bench and jostling Xander and Buffy. “I did some reading between classes, and guess what? It’s called The Myrtles Plantation! It totally exists!”

            “Well, I figured it did,” Sam said, as if he knew exactly what Willow was talking about. “But I’m just surprised we’ve never heard of it.”

            “It’s super spooky!” Willow said, with far too much enjoyment. “Haunted mirrors and multiple ghost sightings! Slaves who had their ears cut off! We totally have to go! It’d be a great graduation trip!”

            Everyone stared as Willow and Sam made their little nerdy exchange. “You want to go to a haunting for your graduation trip,” Buffy said, flatly. “Willow, have you actually lost your mind?”

            Willow shrugged. “Well, can you see me on a beach in Cancun, downing tequila shots? I can’t. I’d rather book a room at an uber-haunted bed and breakfast and be the first person to really document the sightings scientifically. And The Myrtles is in Louisiana! We could head to New Orleans afterwards and make some real hex bags! It’d be amazing!”

            “Slow your roll, there, kiddo,” Harry said. “Nobody should sound that happy about mixing with the folks in the Big Easy. There’s some deep magic going on in those parts.”

            “Well, that’s why I’d take Sam with me,” Willow said, like it was obvious. Then she blushed. “I mean as a bodyguard. He’s totally bodyguard material. Supernatural bodyguard material. And Buffy—“

            “Nope,” Buffy said. “Tequila shots and beaches or haunted hotels and voodoo? I’m taking Door Number One, thanks.”

            “If you want to go, we’ll go,” Sam said, with a laugh at everyone else’s commentary on Willow’s idea of fun.

            “Once Willow hits eighteen, that is,” Xander said. “Right?”

            “Oh, do you think we could go this summer?” Willow asked, eagerly. “I’ve got some money left over from Christmas!”

            “I’ll have to check my schedule,” Sam said, dryly. “Your people can talk to my people.”

            “No, you can’t go this summer,” Xander said, alarmed. “You are not going alone with the yeti this summer. Haven’t you seen the movie ‘The Bodyguard’?”

            Willow looked honestly perplexed. “Summer’s always boring around here. We should all go!”

            “Um, Willow,” said Cordelia, as she sailed into the group from the set of stairs to the right of the bench, “what are you going on about? I swear, I can hear your chirpy little voice all the way up those stairs. You sound like a parakeet on caffeine.”

            “Huh,” Xander said. “Not a bad description, really.”

            “The Myrtles Plantation!” Willow said, ready to start the spiel all over again. “We should go this summer, with Sam and Dean! And Harry, too, if he wants to go. It’s this mansion in Louisiana—“

            “Yeah, no,” Cordelia said, with a toss of her hair. “My family has plans. We’re going to Mexico. An all-inclusive resort.” She seemed to absorb the last bit of Willow’s statement. “Wait, did you say with Sam and Dean?”

            “Okay,” Xander said, loudly, “I say we take this party to the library.”

            “We do need to get this show on the road,” Harry said. “We only have about twenty-four hours until the spring fling.”

            “Good idea,” Cordelia said. “I have something very important to say about what I saw at The Bronze last night. Because I’m very helpful and thorough. And I rocked my little black dress, to boot.” And with another swish of her hair, she led the way to the library, making sure to put as much swing in her walk as possible. All the males behind Cordelia—with the exception of Xander--studiously looked at the plain school walls as they followed her.

             Giles and Miss Calendar were already at the library. They welcomed everyone as they came in. Buffy showed the amulets Dean and Harry had given the teenagers to her watcher, who nodded in approval. “Those will do nicely for any minor influential magic the league members may attempt.”

            “There may be a flaw in the amulets’ designs for any vocal spellwork, though,” Harry said, as he sat down on the stairs. “Dean and I only saw Anne Priester use what’s called transference, which means she had to use the power of touch to put the whammy on Dean. These amulets are made mostly to target that sort of magic. I’m not sure how effective they’ll be against large-scale _vox incantare_.”

            “Do what, now?” Buffy asked.

            “That’s a fancy way of saying verbal spells rather than spells activated by touch,” Dean said. When he was met by raised eyebrows, he said, somewhat defensively, “I know Latin, okay? I could write Latin essays when I was in high school.”

            “Well, _veni, vidi, vici_ to you, too,” said Harry.

            “To summarize,” Giles broke in, crisply, “our efforts over the past few days have yielded some results. We know that the cult is most likely also the abstinence league. We know that they most likely worship a female god of chaos and this leads to, er, devilish revelry that serves as worship. We know that the cult has sacrificed four boy virgins to their goddess, and they are going to use the spring equinox—via the spring fling—to culminate their rituals and to bring forth their deity. We now know that there is at least one witch or dark enchantress amongst the cult.”

            “It’s quite possible Papadopoulos is a wizard or at least a minor practitioner, too,” Harry put in.

            “Indeed,” Giles said. “Now, last night we all tried to accomplish different tasks. Did last night’s efforts reveal anything to the rest of you?”

            “Not much,” Sam and Willow said, simultaneously.

            Harry and Thomas both looked dissatisfied as Harry said, “We were staked out at the clearing all night, but the cult apparently took their party to an abandoned ranger cabin on the other side of the park. We never saw or heard anything in the rain.”

            “Nothing but the usual vampires on our patrol last night,” Buffy said, regretfully. “We did the whole shake-and-stake and nothing else. It was nice having the company, though. We knocked it out in record time,” she added, and she and Dean fist-bumped.

            “Did you just fist-bump?” asked Sam, amused.

            “Oh, please,” Buffy said. “You and Willow would, too, if you knew what a fist-bump looked like. You’d be more likely to do the Star Trek thing.”

            Deadpan, Sam and Willow both held up their fingers in the traditional Vulcan salute. “Live long and prosper,” Willow said, with mock solemnity.

            “Okay,” Cordelia said, impatiently, “but does anyone want to hear how my night at The Bronze went?”

            “We’re all ears, Cordie,” Xander said. He had his arms crossed over his chest and he was glaring daggers alternately at each Winchester. Dean and Sam didn’t notice.

            Cordelia adjusted her position atop one of the library tables, crossing her legs so that her pencil skirt tightened just a little more around her hips. She leaned her hands against the table’s edge. “Well, I got there around eight, because anybody who’s anybody waits until the band gets into their swing before they show up. I got there at eight and I stayed ‘til midnight.” She leaned forward. “I was committed, you know? Anyway, I figured I’d sit at the bar, because I could see everybody from there. I had this whole detective gig down pat—“

            “Cordelia, please curtail your narrative strictly to relevant details,” Giles said.

            “What, is that like ‘cut to the chase’?” Cordelia asked.

            “Essentially, yes,” Giles said, wearily.

            “Fine.” Cordelia twisted her lipstick-brightened lips. “I saw this girl there I’d never seen before. She doesn’t go to school with us, and she didn’t look old enough to be a college girl. But she was, like, [Christie Brinkley ](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/bd/a0/ef/bda0ef64e4f48928642d4a1ff5dd9e31.jpg)meets [Jessica Simpson](http://imagecache2.allposters.com/images/PF/252005/PF_1232960.jpg) meets [Shakira](http://www.mtv.com/news/photos/s/shakira_evolution_of_111009/2001_vma_evolution_shakira.jpg). I mean, I was envious of this girl’s looks, and that is saying something, don’t you think?” She smoothed her own outfit as if to emphasize her point.

            Giles cleared his throat heartily. “That’s neither here nor there. Are you saying you’ve never seen this girl before at all? You’re certain she’s not a student?”

            “Giles, what part of ‘she’s so pretty I want to kill her’ did you not understand?” Cordelia demanded. “If this girl went to school with us, every woman in the building would be out to get her.”

            “I’m pretty sure the words ‘she’s so pretty I want to kill her’ were not in your original telling,” Giles said.

            “It was subtext,” Cordelia said, as if it should be obvious.

            “Did this girl seem like she was doing anything suspicious?” asked Harry. “Aside from existing without your prior knowledge?”

            “I’m getting there,” Cordelia said. “So, this mega-hot chick shows up, right? And she doesn’t pay attention to any of the senior boys who started panting after her like dogs. She just goes to the bar, gets a drink, and waits. She just sits there for like an hour. And then, when the senior boys stopped hitting on her, she got up and started talking to some of the rejects.”

            Giles frowned. “Rejects?”

            “Rejects,” Dean said. “Ouch.”

            “Oh,” Xander said, “that’s brilliant. Evil, mind you, but brilliant.”

            “She’s definitely not on the up and up,” Buffy said. 

            “That’s Grade A malicious intent,” Willow said.

            “What are you guys talking about?” asked Harry, perplexed.     

            “Duh, Gunslinger,” Cordelia said, rolling her eyes. “ _Why_ would a girl that hot talk to any guy who wasn’t _at least_ an eight out of ten? And _why_ would she go for the guys who hadn’t crawled all over each other to dance with her?” When there wasn’t an immediate answer, the teenager sighed. “Man, it’s like you hit twenty-one, and all your previous knowledge about social structure just flies out the window.”

            “She must have been picking out the virgins, right?” Sam guessed. “She wanted to see who had enough sexual experience to think they could pick her up.”

            “Oh, was she gunning for it, too,” Cordelia said. “Believe me when I say: she makes this outfit look like a nun’s Cabot.”

            “Habit,” Sam said.

            “Huh?”

            “A nun’s habit. Not Cabot.”

            “Whatever,” Cordelia said. “She looked like a skank, okay?”

            “But if you’ve never seen her before,” Thomas said, suddenly, “then who is she—or what is she—and where did she come from?”

            There was a moment of silence. Then Xander said, “I guess there’s no chance of us staking out The Bronze again tonight to look for this chick—you know, just to be thorough?”

            “None whatsoever,” Giles said, blandly.        

            “That won’t be necessary,” Harry said. “If she’s with the cult, Dean and I will find out soon enough.”

            Buffy raised her eyebrows. “Really? Why?”

            At that exact moment, Dean’s phone went off. He pulled it out and looked at the screen, then swore. Jenny, Giles, and Sam all shouted, “Dean!” in variously mortified tones.

            “Sorry,” Dean said, as he thumbed around on his phone. “It’s just that I got a call from Miss [Love Potion Number Nine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=36WVirpAieM).”

            “I take it you mean Anne Priester?” asked Giles. “Second-in-command in the cult and also the enchantress who, er, tried to put the whammy on you?”

            “The very woman,” Dean said. “God help us. Harry, it’s time to suit up. We’ve got a hot date tonight.”

            Harry grinned. “Watson, the game’s afoot!”


	15. The Sinister Sound of Marvin Gaye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes go into the belly of the beast.

“I forgot you do that,” Harry said, as he sat in the passenger seat of the Winchesters’ Impala.

            Dean stopped humming long enough to say, “What?”

            “You hum when you’re nervous,” Harry said. “You even did that when you were a kid. But back then it was Styx, not Metallica.”

            “And I suppose you’re Mister Miyagi now, all centered and whatever?” Dean asked, sarcastically. “You do know we’re about to go bump and grind with murderers, right?”

            “It’s crossed my mind about seventy times since we left the library,” Harry said. He shook out the protective bracelet on his arm. “But I’m not getting naked. I’m keeping my protections on me. I think you should, too.”

            “At this point, Harry, I’m not worried about demons or vampires. I’m worried about good old-fashioned STDs and human perverts.”

            “But you can’t forget that at least one of these people is a witch. We have to be totally on our guard.” Harry frowned into the distance. “You do know where you’re going, right?”

            “Anne gave me directions. It’s just out in the middle of nowhere.”

            They drove for a while in silence. Dean hummed ‘[For Whom the Bell Tolls](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bg92QpjRcJk)’. Harry continued to frown out the window like the world itself displeased him. They made their way through Sunnydale, past the high school, The Bronze, and the suburbs. At length, Dean blurted out, “What if we actually have to have sex in the cult?”

            “What?” Harry said, startled. He’d been lost in mental contingency plans and spells.

            “I mean, if I had to pick someone at this shindig, I really don’t want to get it on with someone who’s shanked a high schooler, Harry,” Dean said, and the words seemed to spill out of him through his agitation. “I mean, I’ve done a lot of things in the name of hunting, but having sex with a monster isn’t one of them. I really don’t want to add it to the list, okay?”

            “Dean—“

            “I mean, that wasn’t actually in the plan, was it? We’re not going to commit that far, are we? But what if we get in there and there’s no way out of it? What if we have to get nasty with these freaks?”

            “Dean…” Harry seemed at a loss on how to finish his sentence. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, okay, I know, it’s pretty freaking gross.”

            “’Gross’ is the understatement of the year, dude.”

            “And I’ve done things in my job that I’d rather never tell you about,” Harry went on, seriously. “But you’re right: this transcends that level of disgusting.” He sighed and ran a hand over his face. “We’ve just got to think of those kids, Dean. Those boys they sacrificed…they were innocent, something you and I haven’t been in a long time. And there’s no one else who can avenge them. It’s just you and me and our gang. If we chicken out now…”

            “Ugh.” Dean banged his head against the steering wheel. “You’re so frickin’ noble. I thought wizards were supposed to be power-hungry egomaniacs, like that one guy from Lord of the Rings—“

            “Saruman,” Harry supplied helpfully.

            “Nerd,” Dean snorted. Then he let out a gust of air. “Okay. Okay. We’re gonna do this.”

            “I don’t know why you’re so worried,” Harry said, mock cheerfully, “all you have to do is pretend to be my rentboy. I’ve got to do the hard work of being the assertive gay sugar daddy.”

            “I hate you so much,” Dean said.

            They arrived at the location Anne had given to Dean around midnight. The cult had decided to meet at a forgotten cemetery on the outskirts of town. When Dean and Harry stepped out of the car, they were greeted by the sound of Marvin Gaye crooning about [sexual healing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rjlSiASsUIs). They gave one another a dark glance, then carefully erased the dread from their faces and made their way to the circle of cultists already waiting for them.

            “Hello, boys!” Anne Priester greeted them with a wide smile. She was hardly recognizable, naked and covered in blue and white paint. The only scrap of clothing she had on was a necklace of silver rings from which a bone figurine dangled. “I was worried you’d changed your minds, sweetie.” She approached with the obvious intent to embrace Dean, who accepted the hug (and subsequent feel-up) without a flinch. She moved on to Harry, who followed Dean’s admirable lead.

            “We told you we were in,” said Dean, with his pub-crawl smile already in place. He held up the six-pack of fancy beer he and Harry had purchased as a last-minute libation to the deity they were actively trying to sabotage. “We brought beer. Hope it’s good enough for the party.”

            “Oh, you darling,” Anne purred. “How thoughtful. Anthony will be so pleased. Don’t worry, it’s perfect. We’ll put it on the table with all the others.” She turned and gestured to the other naked, painted people. “Well, boys, these are your brothers and sisters for tonight. I can’t make introductions, because we keep our supplicants anonymous. In this judgmental era, we revelers can’t be too careful when trying to protect each other. Anthony will be here shortly; he’s at the other end of the cemetery, preparing the sacrifice.”

            Dean and Harry pointedly did not look at one another. Harry raised an eyebrow. “Sacrifice?”

            “You know how it is, Harry,” Anne said. “We didn’t all just come here for a good time, did we?” The other cultists shouted a negative. “Our rituals have meaning, boys,” she went on, tossing her hair behind her. “I’m sure you’ll love our goddess just as much as we do, once you’ve experienced her power.”

            “Biggest head-rush ever,” one of the other cultists said. He looked like a middle-aged accountant, but he clearly had hidden depths.

            “If you’re faithful, the goddess will give you power,” another cultist said, reverently. She appeared to be a soccer mom, but the image was lessened by her nudity and blown pupils. Some of the cultists had clearly already imbibed before the ritual. “Sexual power, and financial power, and intellectual power.”

            “Believe me, we’re ready for the power,” Harry said. “That’s why we’re here.” He slid an arm around Dean and forcefully pulled the hunter into him. If it hadn’t felt so much like a cry for help, Dean would have found it hard not to sock the wizard in the mouth. “Isn’t that right, babe?” Harry asked him, with a slightly manic grin.

            Luckily for Dean, Anne chose that time to direct the attention back to her. “Anthony will want to start the ritual soon,” the second-in-command said, “so it’s time for you boys to join the circle.” Another paint-clad cultist went over to the stereo resting on the ground several feet away and switched the song from ‘Sexual Healing’ to a [world-famous stripping song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jbqpG5fYai4). “All new supplicants must disrobe in order to join the ritual,” Anne said, with an entirely too eager gleam in her eye.

            “’You Can Leave Your Hat On’,” Harry said, with a nervous chuckle, “well, that’s a classic.”

            Dean stared at all the people staring at him. Paired with the unbelievably cheesy song choice and the fact that he would soon see Harry, someone he had always thought of as an older brother, stark naked, he nearly burst into hysterical laughter. Instead, he thought of the four kids who had been brutally murdered by the naked people now watching him avidly. He lifted his chin and determinedly pulled off his jacket. Beside him, he felt Harry do the same.

            When they were finished, they both waited for Anne as she laid two bowls full of blue and white paint on the ground in front of them. She covered her hands in the paint and started slathering it on Harry first. Several more cult members came forward and helped her. They all were very eager to help Dean color himself like an overly-enthusiastic football fan. Dean stared hard at a point in the distance and started counting all the headstones he could see.

            “We need to take your necklace off or it’ll get ruined by the paint,” one of the cult members said. She reached out to take the little protective amulet hanging around Dean’s neck.

            “It’s fine,” Dean said, quickly. “That’s my good luck charm. I never take it off.” He thought fast and gave the cultist a slow smile. “And trust me, I get lucky a lot because of it.”

            “I made it for him,” Harry said. “He’s sentimental about it. Even I can’t get it off him.”

            Anne laid a hand drenched in white paint on Dean’s chest, leaving a print there. “Now you look ready for worship,” she said, and leaned forward, her intent to kiss him unmistakable. Dean would have rather kissed Meg the demon, and that was saying something. Nonetheless, he let the enchantress have her way. Her lips tingled pleasantly against his, and Dean instinctively knew that without the amulet around his neck, he would have fallen under some sort of spell.

            “Now, Anne,” a man’s voice said from behind them, “let’s not get the new supplicants too drunk before the party.”

            Anthony Papadopoulos had arrived. The cult leader’s name was no longer quite so amusing: faced with the reality of giving themselves over to the sex cult, Harry and Dean found the man’s blindingly white smile menacing in and of itself. Papadopoulos was the only one of the group who had clothing of any kind. He wore a flowing white robe that Dean could comfortably call a dress, and his wrists and neck were adorned with ornate rings of bronze and silver. The jewelry had arcane symbols all over it. Anthony himself was adorned, too: he wore over-the-top makeup which made his fine features even more feminine. Beside him stood a teenage girl who hadn’t been there before. Unlike the others, she was naked but not covered in paint. Instead, she had strategically-placed discs of metal secured by small chains covering her indecent exposure. Her beauty was alarmingly perfect.

            “I’m glad you’re here,” Anthony told Harry and Dean. He smiled at them both and let his eyes trail down from their faces. The hunter and the wizard both resisted the urge to shift uncomfortably and tried to look flattered at the attention. “The goddess can always use more supplicants,” Anthony went on, “and she’s particularly fond of virile young men.” Dean had never been less happy to be called ‘virile’ in his life.

            “Is the altar prepared, Anthony?” asked Anne.

            “Everything’s ready,” the cult leader said. “Alexis will start the ceremony, just like always.”

             The ceremony apparently began with large amounts of alcohol. The cult members all walked to another part of the graveyard where Dean and Harry saw the same setup that they had seen in the clearing at the nature trail park: there was a low table set up in the grass nearly covered in different forms of food and alcohol, and beyond that was an altar made of a folding card table. At the very back of the setup, a half-circle of small bonfires raged merrily. Alexis, the implausibly beautiful teenage girl, went to the table and started grabbing bottles of liquor. One by one, she handed them to cult members, who drank the alcohol straight from the bottles.

            Dean got tequila. Harry got bourbon. “I’m clearly the man in this relationship,” Harry told Dean, under his breath.

            “No, everyone just thinks you are,” Dean retorted. “And since it’s a fake relationship to begin with, I wouldn’t put too much thought into it.”

            “Drink up, boys,” Anne said. She trailed her fingers over Dean’s shoulders, then she frowned when he didn’t react. Dean wondered what her kissing spell would have done to him had he not been protected by Harry’s amulet. She took the bottle out of Dean’s hand and fitted it to his lips. Dean had no choice but to drink.

            The plan had originally been to let everyone else around them get drunk, the better to observe and hopefully make a quick getaway if push came to shove. Harry got by with the occasional sip from his bourbon, but Dean was not so lucky. Anne seemed determined to get the hunter as inebriated as the other cult members. By the time she had to leave to attend to her priestly duties, three fourths of the tequila was gone. Harry stuck close by Dean and used their cover as lovers to slip an arm around his shoulders and mutter, “Just how drunk are you?”

             “[Tequila](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=diySuKak0qQ) really _will_ make your clothes fall off,” Dean declared, sloppily.

            “Oh, great,” Harry said. “Fantastic.”

            “That Alexis girl,” Dean said, pointing unsteadily to where Alexis had begun the ritual dancing. “She must be the one Cordelia saw at—the—the…” He snapped his fingers, then shrugged. “Whatever that place is called.”

            “Yeah,” Harry said, “there’s something not right about her. She feels unnatural. I don’t think she’s a teenager at all.”

            “Hope not,” Dean said, “because she’s hot.”

            “Too much tequila for you, kiddo,” Harry said.

            The dancing had turned into something more suited to a prom night without chaperones. Harry felt obligated to keep Dean from the eager ritual participants, so he muttered a spell under his breath and poked the hunter sharply in the stomach. Right on cue, Dean gagged and retched. “Sorry, Dean,” Harry said, “but you and tequila are not going to get along tonight.”

            While Dean was throwing up every lost drop of tequila Anne had forced into his stomach, Harry absently patted his naked back and surveyed the ritual. There was little structure to the worship: most of the cult members were engaged in activities that would be considered too edgy for most dive bars and night clubs. At the altar, Papadopoulos stood with Alexis, a dagger raised high in his hands. He was chanting in a language that sounded like a very old form of Greek. Harry looked at the altar, expecting to see a frightened young man strapped down and awaiting death.

            He wasn’t expecting to see a goat.

            “Huh?” Harry said, intelligently. Beside him, Dean continued to vomit, while around them the sounds of a sex cult were accentuated by yet more [Marvin Gaye](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cqkwykA4iFw) and his desire to get it on.

 

 


	16. Cat Out of Bag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit more serious time this chapter, friends. Some of the non-con is contained in this chapter.

A voice spoke into Harry’s ear. “Not what you were expecting, Harry?”  
It was Anne. Her eyes were huge, the pupils dilated to an extreme degree. Harry could smell the power building within her thin frame. The witch had taken in a large amount of magical energy from some source. Harry hadn’t sensed any force strong enough to power up such a lower-grade enchantress, but then he saw that the bone figurine hanging against Anne’s bare breasts glowed fluorescent white. The color and luminance was unnatural. Harry’s best guess was that the ritual itself was stirring up power within Anne, funneled by whatever deity she worshipped like an arcane siphon.   
Harry suspected that he and Dean’s cover had been blown, somehow. He couldn’t be sure, though. He kept up the charade. “Well, I can’t say I was expecting a goat,” he said, injecting as much truth as possible into his voice. “I mean, from the way everyone was talking, I was hoping for something a little stronger. For a real sacrifice, most gods won’t accept anything less than cattle mutilation, these days.”  
“Oh, you’re absolutely right,” Anne murmured. “And our goddess is especially picky. She used to be great. She was revered in one of the greatest societies the world’s ever seen.”  
Harry got chills as the enchantress trailed her fingers over his arms. The contact created sparks up and down his skin, but the intended effect of Anne’s spell ran off. Harry’s protections were too strong for Anne even when she was high off some goddess-induced wattage. “So, where’s the real sacrifice?” he asked, still keeping his cover. “Is that the big finale for the night?”  
Dean chose that moment to recover from the vomiting spell Harry had cast over him. He stood up from his crouch and wiped at his face. “Ugh,” he said, faintly, “tequila never tastes quite as good coming back up.”  
“We don’t need a better sacrifice tonight,” Anne said. “You’ve brought us the best one yet.” And with that, she reached out and snapped the protective charm from Dean’s neck.  
It didn’t take long for Harry to catch on. “No!” the wizard snarled, raising up his hand instinctively. For the first time since arriving in Sunnydale, his magic got away from him. The fires behind the food table snapped with fury, caught up in Harry’s anger. “Don’t you touch him,” Harry said, through gritted teeth.   
“Careful, wizard,” a young woman said, from behind him. Harry didn’t have to look to know that the thing called Alexis stood at his back. Her presence now screamed out her inhumanity to him, like a thin veil had been dropped. “Our Lady doesn’t like it when her supplicants get burned.”  
“I’m sure she doesn’t,” Harry said, tightly. “But whether you make me hurt you is entirely up to you. If you so much as look in Dean’s direction, I’ll turn this prom night into a barbecue. Understand?”  
“Be careful, Harry,” Dean said, equally urgent. The magical stomach bug had cleaned him of alcohol poisoning, and although he wasn’t one hundred percent alert, he was present enough to know that his friend was on the edge of a dangerous decision. “Don’t do anything stupid, man.”  
“Listen to Green Eyes, Dresden,” the thing called Alexis cooed. “You know you can’t harm mortals with magic. That’s instant death, courtesy of your White Council.”  
“I will die happy before I let you hurt Dean,” Harry said. He made the point by muttering a quick, ‘Fuego!’ under his breath, calling fire into his palm. “And if you try to kill me, my death curse will put all of you homicidal hippies in the ground.”  
“Harry—“ Dean said, warningly.   
“Yes, yes,” sighed Anne, “we’re all very impressed by your big wizardly powers, Harry. We’ve read all about them.” In deliberate defiance, she leaned over and wrapped her arms around Dean. Without his protective amulet, the hunter went without a protest. With a smile, Anne put her jaw to Dean’s and licked his ear.   
Harry’s vision went white with rage, but he tempered his reaction. His mind scrambled for a way out of this situation that didn’t involve magic. The main problem: he was naked, as was Dean. The only thing he had on his person was the silver shield bracelet, his own protective amulet, and the pentacle amulet that had belonged to his mother. He was a fairly competent brawler, but against an entire murderous sex cult, he didn’t stand much of a chance. And then there was Dean to think of. Without his amulet, the hunter would fall under Anne’s influence. He might attack Harry himself if Anne commanded it, and Harry wasn’t proud enough to think that Dean couldn’t bring him down.   
Anthony Papadopoulos came forward, amidst the revelers, and stood across from Harry. Anne remained as she was, her hands all over Dean, who stood mute and powerless while Harry ground his teeth. Of the two, Anthony had the most power, but he was a drop in the ocean compared to the wizard. It infuriated Harry that he couldn’t level the playing field with a little help from his good friend fire, but Dean’s eyes stared at him, silently reprimanding him. ‘Don’t be an idiot,’ Dean’s eyes said, plainly.   
“The goddess is pleased by this hunter you brought us, Mister Dresden,” Anthony said, calmly. “She really does have a soft spot for his type. She prefers virgins, of course, but she’s willing to make a very big exception for that one.” He licked his lips as he looked at Dean. Harry was nearly overcome by the urge to ram his elbow into the man’s throat.   
“You can’t have him,” Harry said, simply. Then he spun, shouted, “Forzare!” at the top of his lungs, and swung his arm out toward the liquor table. The remaining bottles were swept up in a violent wind, directed by Harry’s arm, and flung themselves into the revelers. One bottle, some fine Jamaican rum, shattered against Anthony Papadopoulos’s back. The priest was knocked off his feet with a startled cry. Harry took the opportunity to lunge forward, bent on wrestling Dean out of Anne’s hands.   
The witch saw Harry’s intentions and backed away swiftly, dragging Dean with her. The hunter finally struggled against the spell holding him dormant in her arms. He growled in protest as his efforts were stifled by Anne’s kiss against his neck. In retaliation, Dean did a very un-Dean-like thing: he reared back and smacked Anne Priester in the nose with his skull. As the witch shrieked in pain, she loosened her grip. Dean used all his strength to break away from her, gasping like his very lungs had been sedated by her spell. “Sorry, babe,” Dean wheezed, “but I’m not interested in being the next table decoration at the sex party.”  
“Dean,” Harry said, as he put Papadopoulos in a headlock, “your amulet! Find it and—“  
His words died in his throat as he felt a lithe, young body press against him. Alexis, the creature he couldn’t name, pressed her fingertips to his eyes. “Now, Harry,” she sang, her voice like sex, “you’re being an awful lot of trouble. Why don’t you just relax for a while?”  
And without warning, the world started to darken around Harry. Before he succumbed to Alexis’s power, he saw Anne Priester rise from the ground, blood trickling from her nose as she seized Dean’s arm in a deathgrip. The last thing Harry saw was Dean’s face as he realized he couldn’t fight the enchantress’s power a second time.   
The world flew out from under him, and Harry lost consciousness.


	17. When In Doubt, Brew Tea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not at all sorry about that cliffhanger.

“Giles!”  
Giles turned his head away from the urgent noise.   
“Giles, wake up!”  
Giles pressed his face more firmly into the hard surface it rested on and drifted back into sleep.  
“Giles!” A hand seized Giles’s shoulder and shook it for all it was worth. Giles wakened with a groan of protest. He glanced to the side with bleary eyes. Sam Winchester was staring back at him. “Giles,” the younger hunter said, “Dean and Harry haven’t come back.”  
“Yes, quite,” Giles muttered, and nearly slipped back into sleep. The last couple days had been trying and he had missed quite a lot of rest.   
“Come on, Giles, get up!” Sam insisted, and he dragged the chair Giles sat in away from the table. Giles had no choice but to sit up and wipe the sleep out of his eyes.   
“What is it, Sam?” asked Giles, somewhat testily. He had only wanted to shut his eyes for a few minutes…just a quick nap while they waited for Dean and Harry to return.   
Sam looked at Giles as though he couldn’t believe he had to repeat himself. “Dean. And Harry. They haven’t come back yet.”  
Around them, the other vigil keepers stirred, woken by Sam’s voice. Giles hadn’t meant for everyone to fall asleep in the library, but that’s what had happened. Buffy and Willow were leaned against one another at a table, Cordelia was curled up in a corner, and Xander was sprawled out on the floor. Thomas was still there, too, although he had made an unsuccessful effort to stay awake by sitting cross-legged on the upper level stairs of the library.   
“Wuz goin’ on?” Xander slurred, sitting up. “Vampires?”  
“Just Sam,” groaned Buffy, stretching out her back. “Being really loud.”  
“Dean and Harry haven’t come back!” Sam shouted, apparently fed up with repetition.   
“It’s just gone midnight, Sam,” Giles protested, muzzily. “I’m sure they’ll be back soon.”  
“No, Giles,” Sam said, and he pointed to the clock on the wall. “It’s six o’clock in the morning!”  
Giles woke up immediately. “What?” He looked at the clock. Sam was right. Giles scrambled out of his chair and ran a hand through his hair. “Good heavens. We all slept directly through the night. How could we have been so careless?” The watcher felt guilty. Worry for Dean and Harry crawled across his skin like gooseflesh.   
“Six?” Buffy gasped. “No way! There’s no way I would sleep that—oh.” She slumped as she looked at the clock, too. “Oh.”  
Sam looked most guilty of all. He paced around the library like a dog disturbed by an intruder at his property. “Giles, they’ve been gone for twelve hours,” the youngest Winchester said. “The cult must have them, Giles. What if their cover was blown? If anything happens to Dean or Harry—“  
“Sam,” Giles said, for more calmly than he felt, “panic will not solve anything.”  
Sam was hardly listening. Before Giles knew it, the hunter shrugged on his coat and headed for the door. “I’m going to find them,” Sam said.   
“Wait!” Giles said. He seized Sam’s arm. It was his luck that Sam was not a physical person by nature; Giles knew the young man could shrug him off without a problem, but Sam let the watcher stay his movements. “Sam, the very worst thing to do would be to find yourself at the mercy of the cult as well!”  
“The very worst thing is to let those sick freaks hurt my brother,” Sam snapped back. “You were there, Giles—you saw what they did to that kid.”  
“Sam,” Thomas spoke up. He had descended the stairs and stood brimming with his own nervous energy, but unlike Sam, his nervousness condensed itself into an unnerving stillness. “I’m with you, man. God knows, if Harry’s in trouble, we’re all in trouble. But we have to think about this. We have to have a game plan.”  
“The situation may very well be dire,” Giles cut in, firmly but evenly, “but working yourself into a state of panic is not going to help. Sit down. I’ll make some tea.” Looking around at the stricken faces of his companions, Giles amended, “I’ll make a lot of tea.”  
While Giles busied himself with boiling water and setting out teacups, Buffy and Willow guided Sam to sit with them. “I’m sorry, Sam,” Buffy said, glumly. “I should never have been off my guard. It was an amateur move to fall asleep like that.”  
“It’s not your fault. You’re just a kid,” Sam said, as he put a hand to his head. Buffy felt worse because he clearly meant what he said, and he clearly felt that the blame fell squarely on him.   
“Hey,” Buffy said, with mock indignation, “kid or not, I’m The Slayer. Don’t you know everything is my fault?” She watched Sam rub a hand across his forehead and frowned. “Can you give yourself a guilt headache, or something?”  
“Something like that,” Sam said, darkly.   
“Well, quit it. We were all here waiting. We’re all to blame for sleeping on the job.”  
“Chamomile or mint rose?” Giles called, from his study.  
“Mint rose,” Willow answered, then blushed. “Sorry—uh, I figured everybody was loaded down enough without having to pick which tea flavor on top of it all.”   
“That’s fine, Willow,” Buffy said, with a fond smile. “So, what’re we thinking, Giles? Prison break into Nudist Central?”  
“How would we find the cult, though?” Willow asked. “They won’t all be standing around, rubbing their hands together and chuckling evilly. They could hide Dean and Harry anywhere in Sunnydale.”  
Xander cleared his throat. “If they’re even still—“  
“Xander,” Giles said, sharply, as he carried cups of tea to the table.   
Thomas accepted his cup of tea and held it between his hands, staring at it thoughtfully. “I hesitate to tell people this,” he said, slowly, “but I can perform some elementary spells. I could probably swing a decent tracking spell for Harry, at least.”  
“You can do magic, too?” Willow asked, eagerly.   
“Let me put it this way,” Thomas said. “Harry’s magic is a Lamborghini, and mine is a little red wagon.”  
“Does it run in the family?” asked Sam. And then his brain seemed to catch up to his mouth, and he tried to backtrack wildly. “I mean—um--“  
The damage was already done. “Wait a second,” Buffy said, turning to Thomas, “you’re…you’re related to Harry?”  
“Thanks, Sam,” Thomas said.   
“I’m sorry,” Sam said, hunching up his shoulders a little. “It was just so obvious. I didn’t think you guys were really trying to hide it.”  
“So, just to be clear, you’re not gay boyfriends?” asked Xander. When everyone stared at him, he held up his hands. “I’m just saying: two guys show up in town sharing a car and a hotel room, and nobody’s mind jumped to that conclusion?”  
Thomas sighed. “I’m his brother.”  
“Gee, don’t overwhelm us with your brotherly pride in Harry,” Buffy said.   
“It’s complicated, all right,” Thomas said, sharply. “And it has nothing to do with the fact that Harry and Dean are most likely drugged and tied up somewhere.”  
“If they’re alive,” Xander pointed out, again.   
“Yes, thank you, Xander, we are all aware of that possibility,” Giles ground out, with a flash of his blue eyes. “Please, feel free to reiterate it yet again, any time you like.”  
“Um, I hate to be the one who brings this up,” Cordelia said, out of nowhere, “but maybe the best thing we could do is wait for the spring fling? I mean, if the cult-y people think someone’s on to them, they might split town. Shouldn’t we just try and stop them once and for all tonight?” The whole room seemed to pause as everyone considered Cordelia’s suggestion. “Maybe if the weirdos think it was just Harry and Dean who knew about them, we can still pull one over on them,” Cordelia finished. “I mean, it’s just a brainwave. Take it or leave it.”  
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Xander said, “but I’m liking Cordelia’s plan.”  
“But that’s still twelve hours away!” Willow protested. “The guys will have been kidnapped for a whole day! Anything could have happened by then.”  
“But come on, Will, what’s the cult’s usual M.O.?” asked Xander. “A night sacrifice. So, logically, we have until tonight to rescue them. Or, at least one of them. They might have sacrificed one of them last—“  
“Would you quit it, Xander?” snapped Buffy. “We all know you’re jealous of Dean, but that’s no reason to be a jerk about it.”  
Xander spluttered for a minute while Buffy glared at him. Sam was sitting with his head clutched in his hands. He didn’t seem all that aware of the conversation. Buffy was somewhat relieved that the hunter hadn’t heard Xander and his insensitive remarks, but she was more concerned to see someone who was usually mentally razor-sharp so out of it. She briefly considered the fact that the stress from Dean’s disappearance might overwhelm Sam, but given their lives as hunters, she doubted that was the problem.   
Willow beat her to her next move. “Sam? Are you okay?”  
Sam took a few seconds longer to answer than was normal for him. “I just have a headache. I get them all the time.”  
“Do you want some Tylenol?” Cordelia asked, again out of nowhere. “I’ve got some in my purse.”  
“I’ll be fine,” Sam said, tiredly. “Thanks.”   
“You’re not wearing your protections.”  
The low, masculine voice startled everyone. Giles nearly dropped the teapot as he spun around to face the library doors. Angel stood in the doorway, his dark, mournful eyes fixed on Sam. “I gave those to you for a reason,” Angel went on, as Sam lifted his face from his hands. “It’s dangerous for you in this town. You need those protections.”  
“What the heck, Angel?” said Xander. “Heart attack waiting to happen, man.”  
Angel watched Sam until the hunter reached into his pocket, pulled out the silver chain with the crucifix and the medal of Saint Jude, and slipped it over his head. Then, under Angel’s watchful gaze, Sam sighed and crossed himself, muttering, “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.” Instantly, Sam’s posture relaxed. Giles’s eyebrows shot up toward his hair, and Thomas gave Sam a speculative look better suited to a scientist watching a particularly interesting bird.   
“The headache’s gone?” Willow asked Sam, intuitively. Sam nodded.   
“Wow. That’s great. And not creepy at all,” Xander said.   
“It’s a standard Catholic thing, isn’t it, the hand waving?” asked Buffy.  
“Yeah, but not all of us mysteriously cure our mysterious headaches by making the shape of the cross and speaking Greek,” Xander pointed out.   
“It’s Latin,” Sam said, reflexively. “And it’s not important right now.”  
“I take it you’re here for more than a reminder to Sam to wear his, er, protection?” Giles asked Angel. He had prioritized saving Dean and Harry over the rapidly growing intrigue around Sam.   
The vampire nodded and seemed to shift uncomfortably. “Harry Dresden is passed out in a cemetery fifteen miles outside of town. He’ll wake up any time.”  
“Say what?” Buffy said. She ignored the way her heart had started to race as soon as Angel appeared. Instead, she focused on the matter at hand. “And he’s okay? He’s not hurt?”  
“He was magically compelled into unconsciousness, but from what I could tell, he won’t suffer any lasting damage,” Angel said. “I tried to wake him up, but I couldn’t.”  
“Next question,” Xander said. “Is he still naked? Did you in fact try to wake him up and then leave him lying naked in the middle of a cemetery?”  
“I put his clothes back on him,” Angel said. “But I couldn’t bring him back here because I would have had to carry him, and it would have taken too long.”  
“Taken too long?” Sam repeated, puzzled.  
Angel gave a resigned nod and said, “I’m a vampire, Sam. I would have gotten caught out at sunrise.”  
Sam sat for a moment, obviously processing this information. “You’re a vampire, but you gave me this?” He held up the crucifix and saint medallion.  
“Angel is a special snowflake,” Buffy said. “He has his soul. He’s good. It’s a long story.”   
“I guess so,” Sam huffed.   
“Angel?” Thomas said, with raised eyebrows. “The Angel?”  
“Not too many vampires named Angel walking around,” Xander said.   
Angel gave Thomas a thorough once-over, and then he said, “You’re Thomas Raith, aren’t you?” It wasn’t a real question.   
Thomas gave a half-smirk. “In the flesh.”  
“I’ve heard of you,” Angel said.   
“I noticed. But I admit, I’m surprised. I’m not exactly Prom King where I come from.”  
“You’re known to certain circles,” Angel said, cryptically. Then he tipped his head in acknowledgement. “It’s good to make your acquaintance.”  
Thomas nodded back, but reluctantly. “Likewise.”  
“Wait a second…” Buffy swiveled to look at Thomas, then she swung back to look at Angel. Thomas looked shifty. “Wait…” Buffy jumped out of her chair. “You.” She stabbed a finger at Thomas. “Oh, my gosh: you’re a vampire!”  
Everyone took that cue to react with varying degrees of shock and/or horror. Amidst his comrades’ surprise, Thomas sat with his cup of tea in hand, a still figure in an action scene. “Guilty as charged,” he said, and sipped at the cup. “Also, I just discovered I really like mint rose tea. Today is full of surprises.”


	18. The Rumors of My Death

When Harry regained consciousness, he realized he was clothed. Then he realized he was lying in the cemetery where their plans to infiltrate the cult had ended disastrously. His head felt thick, like it was stuffed with cotton batting. He rolled to his side and slowly pulled himself to a standing position. His back ached from lying on the hard ground all night.  
The first thing Harry did once he had shaken some of the woolly sensation out of his head was to check his protections. To his relief, he still had his shield bracelet, his pentagram necklace, and the protective amulet he had made the day before. But what he didn’t have, he reflected grimly, was the thing he most wanted: Dean, here with him, safe and free from Anne Priester’s insidious spells. Harry couldn’t forget that he had essentially guilt-tripped Dean into joining the cult in the first place, and although he was aware that Dean was an adult capable of making his own decisions, he still felt a gnawing sense of responsibility for the younger man. Out of the two of them, who was the wizard capable of protecting even the most reckless hunter?  
Harry reminded himself to focus. He had landed friends and family in worse situations than this and he had managed to pull them out. He would find Dean before something terrible happened to him. He would make that Priester woman see the error of her ways, with or without the judicious application of violence. He would shut down the cult permanently. He just had to keep his head and use a little bit of magic.  
The cemetery held some of the remnants of the night before, just like the clearing at the park: there was a stray empty bottle here and there, fragments of some of the food, and the body of the goat that Harry now realized had been nothing more than a distraction from the cult’s real intentions toward the two of them. As Harry made his way around the area, his eye caught a thin line of black lying discarded near one of the bonfire spots. He snatched it up and breathed out a sigh of relief. He had found Dean’s amulet.  
As a rule, Harry wasn’t stupid. He had survived in the supernatural world far longer than his enemies had anticipated, and it was only partly due to good fortune. On the way to the ritual, he had convinced Dean to give him a small smear of blood and a piece of his hair, just in case they got separated and Harry needed to locate the hunter quickly. He performed a simple tracking spell using the blood, hair, and amulet, cutting a circle in the dirt with a sharp piece of liquor bottle and using the tuning fork he had shoved into his jacket pocket earlier in the week.  
“Duo et unum. Come on, Dean,” Harry muttered, as the tuning fork remained still. Aside from Thomas himself, Dean was the closest thing Harry had to a brother; if a tracking spell wouldn’t work for him, it wouldn’t work for anyone else in Harry’s life. After a moment, the tuning fork hummed and spun, pointing toward the far end of the cemetery. Without a second thought, Harry ran back to where Dean had parked the night before. He took the keys (and the pile of Dean’s clothes), started the car, and kept the tuning fork in one hand as he spun the Impala out onto the road.  
The tracking spell worked excellently for about seven miles into Sunnydale, and then the connection wavered. Harry kept going, swinging the Impala through the streets in a way which would have made Dean cringe in horror. The spell led him to a neighborhood three blocks from Sunnydale High School and then it faded away without a trace. Harry swore and smacked his hand against the steering wheel, then felt immediately guilty for abusing Dean’s beloved car. He got out and walked around the neighborhood, trying not to look like a drug dealer and coming up empty-handed. There was no sign of any of the cult members and he could very well wander the streets for hours without finding the place where they had hidden Dean.  
Temporarily defeated, Harry figured his best chance at saving Dean was to regroup with the others at the high school. Today was Saturday, which meant the school would be deserted until that afternoon, when the volunteers would come to set up the spring fling. 

 

By the time Harry arrived at the library, the rest of the gang had congregated once again, anxiously awaiting the spring fling. Giles and Sam had gone back to Giles’s house to amass a small collection of goddess-defying artifacts. Willow, Cordelia, and Xander had gone to Willow’s house to sleep. Buffy had gone off with Angel, for reasons unknown to the others. Thomas had stayed at the library, placing carefully-constructed magical repellants in every doorjamb and windowsill. Whether Thomas had wanted to stay inside the library was irrelevant: he had been locked into the room by Willow and Sam’s surprisingly advanced magical ward.  
After the reveal of his true nature, Thomas had been forced to give an abbreviated version of his life story to an increasingly irate crowd. Xander and Buffy had been in favor of ganking him off the bat. Sam, to the surprise of no one, objected to killing Thomas on principle. “He’s Harry’s brother,” Sam had argued, strongly. “And he’s helped us this far. You can’t kill someone just because you think they’re evil by nature.”  
Buffy and company had suspected Sam protested too much for a much more sinister reason than a case of bleeding heart, but they agreed to give Thomas a chance to prove his good intentions. Thomas had not pointed out the obvious truth--that if he had wanted to hurt any of them, he could have done it several times over before they realized he was a vampire—and he had only been mildly annoyed by the ward. He knew that Harry could break him out of the library.  
When Harry pulled the Impala into the parking lot, he saw Willow out on the front lawn of the high school. The small teenager shot to her feet and sprinted full tilt to the car. She flung herself to a stop right in front of the hood, then gasped out, “Harry! You’re okay!” Then, with a pant, “Dean--?”  
“He got roofied by the trashy version of Shirley Maclaine,” Harry said, grimly. “Sorry, kid. I hate to be the bearer of bad news.”  
Willow shook her head, obviously sad but gracious. “No, Harry. At least one of you is okay. We—we’ll get Dean back. You’re a super powerful wizard, right? You and me and Sam and-uh, Thomas—we’ll figure it out.”  
Harry noticed the slight hesitation before his brother’s name. He squinted. Then he read the guilty look on Willow’s face. “Aw, Hell’s bells,” he groaned. “Thomas squealed.”  
“No, no,” Willow said breathlessly, as Harry strode toward the school. “He didn’t squeal, not once! But Angel showed up—he’s a friendly vampire, too—and Buffy put two and two together, and one thing led to another and—and—“  
“Willow,” Harry said, as calmly as he could, “did anybody try to stake my brother last night?”  
“Well, I’d be lying if I said the motion wasn’t raised,” Willow said, “but Sam vetoed the bill before it made it to the house!”  
“Good,” Harry said. “Because I’m already having a crappy day, and having to put the hurt on The Slayer for hurting Thomas would just wash the whole thing down the drain.”  
“Thomas is fine,” Willow said, as if her rushed explanation hadn’t been enough. “Really, Harry! Putting on the hurt would be a waste of energy, honest!”  
Harry looked over at Willow and took in her wide eyes and shrinking posture. His face softened. The menace he had unintentionally acquired throughout the fruitless search for Dean leached out of his figure. “I believe you, Willow,” he said, in a quieter tone. “I’m just a little worried about Dean. Sorry.”  
Willow walked beside him silently for a minute, then she said, “It’s not your fault, Harry. You couldn’t have known you’d get hood-winked by a bunch of insane sex cult-y people.”  
“Willow,” Harry said, “if you stick around me long enough, you’ll find out my presence alone is enough to royally screw up a lot of excellent plans. And this scheme me and Dean worked out was never excellent.”  
They arrived at the library before Willow could think of a comforting comeback. Thomas waited just at the edge of the doorway. The vampire’s face cleared when he saw Harry. “You’re a jerk, making me think you were dead or worse,” Thomas said, with an impressive glower.  
Harry saw through the act. “Yeah, I missed you too,” he said, with a smile.  
Sam stood up from where he had sat with Giles poring over the anti-goddess artifacts. “Harry! Thank God, we were afraid they’d got you, too!”  
“Well, they left me out in the cemetery naked as a jaybird,” Harry said. “So in a sense, they did get me. I think they just knew making me vanish would attract way too much attention from the wrong kind of people. They don’t want trouble, despite their over-the-top rituals.” He looked down at himself. “Somebody put my clothes back on, though…”  
“That was Angel,” Buffy said, from her corner. “Our friendly neighborhood vampire with a soul.”  
“Angelus,” Thomas told Harry, as if that would explain everything.  
Harry’s eyebrows jumped up his forehead, and he nodded like he knew exactly who Angel was. “Well, I hope he’s around for me to thank him personally for saving me from an indecent exposure charge. It would have been hard to explain to the cops why I was drunk in a graveyard in my birthday suit.”  
“Do you know where Dean is, Harry?” Sam asked, urgently. The youngest Winchester looked like he hadn’t slept in days.  
Harry hated to disappoint Sam, but he told the hunter the truth. “I got as far as a suburb called Rowanwood before my tracking spell dissipated. The cult must have some deep magic around their lair; it was like Dean’s essence just disappeared.”  
“So I guess our plan to wait for the spring fling is the only one we’ve got,” Xander said.  
“It appears so,” Giles said, in resignation. “I do hate to leave anyone to those madmen for so long, but we have no other choice at this point.”  
“Maybe we’re all worrying for nothing,” Cordelia suggested, hopefully. “Maybe they’re just gonna wax him and put product in his hair. Maybe they’re gonna liquor Dean up some more around three o’clock, do the ritual, and wait for the goddess to bang him? I mean, who wouldn’t wanna bang him? I bet she does—she’s a woman and sort of alive, after all.”  
“Not helping, Cordelia!” yelped Xander, with his hands over his eyes.  
“I’m just saying, why sacrifice a guy who’s smoking hot?” Cordelia persisted. “Dean’s not some fourteen year-old loser, he’s, like, Greek statue level delicious! I bet goddesses dig that!”  
“Where’s your poisonous hairpins?” Xander asked Buffy. “I need one to give myself a lobotomy.”  
While everyone else cringed at the mental images Cordelia had conjured, Harry and Giles wore thoughtful looks. “You know,” Harry said, slowly, “Cordie here may have a good point…”  
Giles nodded even as he winced. “Yes. Cordelia’s entire supposition, disturbing as it is—the possibility that the cult intend to make Dean the goddess’s meal in an entirely, er, different way than the sacrifices—seems far more likely. After all, Dean is hardly—um—“  
“Pure as the driven snow,” Thomas put in, helpfully.  
“Quite,” Giles said, with a blush. “He would hardly be a fitting sacrifice in the traditional sense. But in a carnal sense, he’s a virile male in his prime. He would be the perfect representation of an ideal participant in a fertility rite.”  
“Because he’s been around the block?” Buffy clarified.  
“Consider Dean himself,” Giles said. “What about him would be appealing to a goddess of chaos and fertility?”  
No one expected Willow to answer. “Violence. Protectiveness. Oh, and violent protectiveness,” she said, decisively. “The ability to make babies. And the ability to violently protect the babies he made.” When she saw that everyone was staring at her, she turned bright red. “I just read a National Geographic about why macho men are appealing to modern women,” she stammered. “For my social studies class! Not because of the pictures of manly men on the insert! Not for that reason at all!”  
“Someone open a window,” Buffy said. “We’re all smothering in the teenage hormones crammed into this room.”  
“If you’re right, Giles,” Harry sighed, “and Cordelia, and the cult plans on giving Dean to the goddess in a spiritual sacrifice, then we might be in a lot more trouble than I thought.”  
“Uh, I wasn’t talking about anything spiritual,” Cordelia said, as if Harry was too naïve to be believed, at the same time Buffy said, “I thought we were already in a lot of trouble.”  
“No, Harry’s right,” Sam said, with a worried frown. “Sexual communion with a goddess can turn a human into a demigod.” When all he got was blank looks from half his audience, he continued, “It could imbue Dean with supernatural power, like a spiritual steroid. If the goddess blesses him, she might even make him one of her champions. Think Heracles, Beowulf, Arahitokami--”  
“Xena Warrior Princess,” Harry added. Xander, Cordelia, and Buffy all nodded in sudden understanding.  
“Americans,” Giles muttered.  
“So if this ritual is completed tonight, we might have the champion of a chaos god on our hands?” demanded Thomas.  
“This is all purely conjecture, but it’s a highly likely scenario,” Giles said, heavily. “This could be why the cult has increased in activity enough to draw our attention. They must have waited for the equinox to find and transfigure a prime candidate for the goddess’s favor, whether the man in question is willing or not.”  
“So you’re saying if we can’t stop this ritual, we might have to kill the goddess…and kill Dean?” Buffy said, cautiously, as if she didn’t want to voice her concern out loud.  
“I doubt we can slay the goddess at all,” Harry answered instead of Giles. His tone was black. “But if the goddess makes him her champion, we will have to stop Dean—“  
“Don’t say it!” Willow said, anxiously.  
“—at any cost,” Harry finished.  
“You said it,” Willow sighed, distraught.  
“No,” Sam said. He faced the room like he would have to single-handedly take them all on. “That’s not gonna happen. We’re going to stop these people before they do anything more than play stupid seventies songs and break out the tequila.”  
Harry put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Sam—“  
“No, Harry,” Sam said, and his voice was louder and sharper than anyone in the room had ever heard before. “No. We’re not going to plan a way to kill Dean. That’s not going to happen.” The unspoken challenge to stand in anyone’s way who disagreed hung in the air before Sam. No one issued a responding challenge, but it was there: in Buffy’s eyes, in Giles’s uncomfortable shrug, and in Xander’s bleak expression.  
In that small space of time, everyone’s allegiances were made clear. Harry stepped up next to Sam and slung an arm around his shoulder, while Thomas flanked Sam’s other side. Xander and Buffy pointed themselves toward Giles. Willow stood in the middle of the room, her hands clutched tight in front of her. “Of course we’re not going to kill Dean, Sam,” Harry said. He gave Giles and Buffy significant glances. “We’ll figure something out.”  
“Sure,” Buffy said, but her voice fell flat. “I’m sure it’ll all be fine.”  
Everyone had been around Sunnydale too long to really believe Harry or Buffy.


	19. The Loudspeakers of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let the trope subversion begin.

Setting up for the Spring Fling of Doom (as Xander called it) was not on the list of things Buffy and company really wanted to do on the eve of the equinox. However, as with most of the inconveniences they encountered in their short lives, the teenagers realized that the only way to do the right thing was to do the hard thing, and so they met up with the other, significantly more oblivious volunteers to help set up booths, hang up decorations, and load up food carts. Aside from the air of menace that seemed to hang in the air, Buffy and her friends didn’t see anything glaringly evil in the preparations.

            “Except for the music,” Xander mentioned, as he hung a string of lights up with pushpins. “What’s up with the music?”

            Willow, who had been singing along to the overhead music under her breath, looked up in confusion. “It seems okay to me.”

            “Yeah, if you’re in the car with your boyfriend or girlfriend,” Xander said. “But since when did school functions play ‘[All I Wanna Do Is Make Love to You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OAfxs0IDeMs)’?”

             Buffy, who hadn’t paid attention until this point in favor of sticking paper hearts on the wall, cocked her head and listened to the inappropriate music. “Huh. I guess the cult’s already here, then. Either that or they chose the music.”

            “What is with them and their corny horndog music?” Cordelia demanded. “This stuff was barf-worthy when it came out, and it hasn’t improved with age.”

            “Heart is amazing, Cordelia!” Willow argued. “I love this song! Just not at the already creepy spring fling where creepier things are bound to happen…”

            “I get the feeling we should have gone over the plan a couple more times with the fellas,” Xander said, nervously. “I know you and Harry and Sam are used to going with the flow, Buff, but this gig feels more high-stakes than usual, you know?”

            “And what, all those demons and vampires were just minor-league?” Buffy asked, sarcastically. “Because they seemed major at the time.”

            “That’s not what I meant,” Xander said. “I mean: we’ve never had to battle a god. And we’ve never had to worry that one of us might get whacked in the crossfire.” He sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Ugh, that’s not what I mean, either!”

            “Well, don’t strain something trying to explain,” Cordelia said, with casual disdain.

            “I’m worried, okay?” snapped Xander. “Dean—he’s not a bad guy, all right? I know I was a total idiot about—certain things—but that doesn’t mean I want to shank the guy while he’s getting the orgasm of death!”

            “You’re right,” Willow jumped in, with her own brand of angst. “We never have had to face off with a goddess. We don’t even know what that’s like. What if we all just underestimate her power? What if we get all the defenses ready and Harry powers up his magic and she just blows us all away? Or worse, what if Dean _does_ get a goddess-hickey level up and we have to—“

            “That’s not going to happen,” Buffy cut in, before her two friends could totally lose their heads. “Giles, Harry, and Sam know what they’re doing. They can bring on the mojo. Our job is to find the cult in the spring fling and keep them from making any more kids their sacrifices. We can do that. It’ll be a piece of cake.”

            “Okay,” Cordelia said, and they all thought she would have something uplifting to say. Instead, she bobbed her head and said, “Now this song, I do like,” and nodded along to, ‘[Walk This Way](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5UFFa1HbFfA)’ by Aerosmith.

            The teenagers did their best to help with the rest of the setup with the awkward soundtrack playing in the background. Back in the library, Harry and Giles worked steadily on their goddess-trapping ritual. Harry drew out various summoning circles with minor variations to contain chaos and sexuality. Giles mostly pointed out the flaws in the circles until Harry shoved a piece of chalk at the watcher and told him to make himself useful or to shut up.

            Sam and Thomas, for the most part, worked on sharpening stakes of evergreen and dipping them in hyssop. “Evergreen’s a traditional god-killing wood,” Sam had explained, “and hyssop is a holy plant. Between the two, it’s bound to at least slow the goddess down.” Thomas did the sharpening, with an impressive lathe Giles had purchased with the sole purpose of stake-manufacture, while Sam carved a quick blessing into the wood and dipped the finished product in the sweet-smelling oil.

            A mere five minutes before the spring fling officially started, Thomas shoved a stake at Sam too enthusiastically and upset one of the hyssop bowls. Sam’s shirt got drenched, and he coughed, overwhelmed by the herbal scent. “Oh dear,” Giles said, as they all wrinkled their nose at the overpowering smell, “Sam, I have some spare shirts in my office. Feel free to make use of them.”

            “Thanks.” Sam took off the necklaces around his neck, left them sitting on the table with the stakes, and unbuttoned his shirt as he walked to the office.

            “We’ll take our half of the stakes and meet the kids at the cafeteria,” Harry said. He and Thomas grabbed their weapons and hustled out, leaving Giles to break the many summoning circles drawn all over the floor and to finish dipping the last few stakes in oil.

            The watcher was too busy at first to notice the very peculiar music that had started to play over the intercom, but then he heard the lyrics and felt his face turn red. ‘[Careless Whisper](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=izGwDsrQ1eQ)’ had always been far too sensual for his sensibilities. The saxophone melody shouldn’t be played in public, in Giles’s opinion. The song certainly didn’t belong at a high school festival. The cult’s machinations had already begun.

“Something’s rotten in the state of Denmark,” Giles muttered, and hefted one of the stakes into his hand, measuring its weight. “We’ll need the hyssop to drive out the stench.”

There was a loud banging noise from outside the library. Giles went to the doors and peered out, fearing a takeover from mad cultists. Instead, what he saw was far more disturbing: a teenaged couple locked in a passionate embrace against the trophy cabinet. Giles grimaced and prepared himself to open the door and yell at them to take their hormones somewhere else, but then another couple suddenly appeared, furiously making out. As Giles watched, two more couples stumbled into the once-deserted back hallway, so busy getting down that they literally _got down_ , on the floor, tripping in their haste to make physical contact with each other. ‘Careless Whisper’ played on, adding a whole new layer of indecency to the scene.

“What the devil,” Giles growled.

“For once, I don’t think he has anything to do with this,” said Sam’s voice, right next to Giles’s ear.

Giles started and turned away from the wildly amorous couples only to stare, alarmed, at Sam. The young hunter had walked up almost silently and was now watching Giles with disturbingly dilated pupils and an expression so intent it made Giles feel rather like a gazelle pinned down by a big cat. Most noticeably, the amulet and medallions were missing from Sam’s neck, Giles’s shirt only semi-buttoned against his chest. “Sam,” Giles said, slowly, “are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Sam said, with an easy smile. “And so are you.”

Giles glanced back at the hallway. All the couples were on the floor, now. The music played on over the loudspeakers, and suddenly, it all made terrible sense in Giles’s head. His eyes widened, and he spun back around to face Sam, who had moved even closer.

Swearing under his breath, Giles edged sideways. Sam followed him. “Sam, listen to me,” Giles started, “the goddess’s power appears to be waxing in tune with the equinox. I think the cult must have summoned her in spirit if not in physical manifestation. She’s already wreaking havoc on—on—“

Sam had hemmed him in once again. Giles feared he would have to do something drastic if, like the high schoolers struck by the goddess’s power, the younger man didn’t keep his hands above the waist. Rather than make such a crass move, Sam merely took Giles’s hand in his own and kissed it. Apparently, even under a compulsion from a chaos goddess, Sam Winchester did things differently than the people around him.

“Sam,” Giles said, as calmly as he could manage, “let me return your amulet.”

“Do you know,” Sam murmured, “you’re kind of awesome, Giles?”

Giles coughed. “I--erm—thank you—“ Sam kissed his hand again, giving him a look Giles knew most likely enabled the hunter to get his way with most of his conquests. Giles, however, burdened with the many barriers of age, rationality, and clarity born of amulet protection, was not so easily swayed. “If you’ll give me a moment,” Giles said, and his voice went up in volume and pitch as Sam turned his lips to the inside of the watcher’s wrist, “I’ll—er—acquire something that will—s-set the mood, shall I?”

“I don’t need anything else,” Sam said.

It would figure, Giles thought grimly, that of all his companions, he was stuck with the most romantic during the crazy sex cult invasion. “Sam,” he tried again, “I think we would both be far more comfortable if you’ll just give me one moment…” Sam graduated from kissing to the judicious application of tongue, and Giles decided that desperate times called for desperate measures. He balled up the hand free of Sam’s grip and socked the other man across the jaw.

Lost in the power of the chaos goddess, Sam was totally unprepared for the blow. He staggered sideways and Giles ducked around his arm. The watcher made it to the table and seized the necklaces before he was shoved against the table by the younger man. Sam now had an entirely different look in his eye. “So,” he growled, “you like it rougher?”

“No, Sam,” Giles said, and wrestled the necklaces back over the younger man’s head, “I don’t like it all. With you, that is,” he added, as Sam’s face cleared of its dark arousal. “I like it plenty with--er—women. Women who are of an age with me. And who aren’t bewitched. Really, in order for me to enjoy it, there are several important qualifiers.”

“Oh,” Sam gasped, and sagged against the table like his legs were about to give out. “Giles—what just—“

“As Harry said, the game is afoot,” Giles said. “The goddess is at hand, there’s magic in the air, can you feel the love tonight—“

“I get it,” groaned Sam, with his head in his hands.

“I’m sorry, I’m just a little hysterical,” Giles said, and took a deep breath. “All right. We had a moment. Are you prepared to continue with the hunt?”

“Are you?” asked Sam, muffled by his hands. “You’re the one that just got creeped on. Ugh, I feel dirty…”

“My head’s clear enough.” Giles took up the stakes on the tabletop and handed half of them to Sam. “Arm yourself. Also, be prepared for the seductive music and the over-eager teenagers. I have a feeling we’ll need to defend ourselves against more than just a goddess once we walk out of the library.”

“Yeah, I’m not such a fan of _Wham!_ , personally.” Sam took the stakes and the handgun he had prepared earlier that day, slid the gun into his belt, shoved the stakes into a bag, and then stopped Giles with a hand on his arm. “You are awesome,” he blurted out, to Giles’s surprise. “You listened to me, that first night we got here. So—thanks, for that. And thanks for letting us in on this case.”

“There’s no need to thank me, Sam,” Giles answered, feeling a tinge of guilt at the younger man’s words. “If we had told you and your brother to shove off, neither of you would be in this position—“

“Yes, we would,” Sam said. “Just in some other time and place. But here, at least, we’ve got help.”

Giles looked at the hunter. Sam stared back, earnestly, his eyes as deep as they had been a short moment before, but clearer and steadier. The watcher felt a surge of affection for the youngest Winchester. He clapped a hand to Sam’s shoulder and gave him a bracing smile. “Well. Enough of that. Let’s go try to ‘gank’ an impossibly powerful deity, shall we?” As Sam grinned back at him, Giles wondered when he would stop growing attached to dangerous children.

 


	20. Guilty Feet Have Got No Rhythm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're approaching the climax! :D

Harry and Thomas found Buffy and company in the cafeteria, helping set up innocent games and food booths. The high schoolers around them were happy and oblivious, excited for the evening’s diversions. Some of the kids had parents and siblings with them. Those were kids they wouldn’t have to worry about; people would notice if they went missing. The high schoolers in small groups or on solo trips were the kids most endangered by the presence of the cult. During their planning session, Harry had come up with the idea that one of them would pull the fire alarm to drive out all the innocent bystanders should there be a legitimate fight between hunters, wizards, slayers, and the cult. That way, Harry and Buffy would be free to lay down the law without the potential for carnage.

Looking around at the jolly chaos, Harry wondered how many of the kids, teachers, and relatives might be hurt by one group’s hunger for power. In his life as a wizard and detective, he had seen too much collateral damage wreaked by the collision of normal life and the supernatural world.

Buffy, Willow, Xander, and Cordelia broke away from setting up a ring toss game to cluster around Harry and Thomas. “What’s the word, kids?” Harry asked. “Found out where the cult’s meeting?”

“They set up a tent in the gym,” Buffy said. “And they’ve got the nerve to still put ‘S.A.P.S. League’ on their banner.”

“Well, they think the only people onto them are in their creepy clutches or passed out in a graveyard,” Harry pointed out. “They don’t have a reason to get rid of their charade.”

“We’ve only got two minutes until the spring fling officially starts, and I haven’t seen any of the cult members yet,” Willow said, anxiously. “You don’t think this is all a clever ruse, do you? Maybe they didn’t come to the school at all.”

“They’ll be here,” Thomas said, grimly. “If they want to use the power of the spring equinox, they’ll be where all the sexual energy is bound to build up, and that’s in a school full of teenagers. That or in night clubs, and somehow I don’t think there’s too many of those in Sunnydale.”

“Not really, no,” Willow conceded.

All of a sudden, the full-bodied sounds of a saxophone played over the school intercom, and the students and teachers shifted around them in an unnatural synchronicity. The song, ‘[Careless Whisper](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I7imqO-OBVk)’, seemed to have an aphrodisiac effect on the hapless spring fling goers who didn’t have the benefit of Harry’s homemade amulets. High schoolers all around them turned interested eyes on each other, gravitating towards whichever warm body was closest. Some people slow danced, others went straight for heavy petting.

“Guys,” Xander said, uneasily, “what’s happening?”

“My first guess?” Harry said, as a single mother eyed him hungrily, “The cult’s here, and they’re putting everybody in the mood for a goddess summoning.” The single mother started unbuttoning her shirt and Harry yelped, “Whoooaa-kay, we’re going to need a Plan B before things get a little too Mile High Club in here.”

“Oh, my gosh,” gasped Willow in sudden comprehension, “guys, it’s St. Vitus’s dance! Choreomania!”

While her friends looked at her in confusion, madness escalated around them. The amulet-wearers drew the attentions of the people around them by the simple fact that they remained stationary when everyone else had already started to move to the enchanted music. Xander had never had so many women interested in him before. It irritated him a little that he was only a chick magnet when the chicks in question were stoned on magic. Willow was beset by a very persistent college senior, while Buffy and Cordelia went back to back to avoid getting hemmed in by boys and girls alike.

The one having the most trouble, however, was Thomas. By the time Harry had wrestled out of another hot mom’s grip enough to notice, his older brother had been surrounded by half the cafeteria’s inhabitants. Thomas backed up, but the crowd followed him, swaying to the suggestive music, some of them shedding clothing as they went. When an avid young cheerleader forced herself to the front, reaching out to touch Thomas, the vampire’s eyes flashed a metallic silver. “Harry!” Thomas shouted, hoarsely. “Distraction, right now!”

“Holy Toledo,” Cordelia said. “I know he’s hot, but isn’t that a little freakish how he’s getting swarmed like that?”

“He is a vampire,” Buffy said. “They’re known for the whole seduction thing.”

Harry wasn’t wisecracking. Of the five of them, he alone knew how much trouble might come from Thomas getting mobbed by a bunch of sex-crazed humans. He pulled out his long blasting rod from underneath his coat and shouted, “ _Lumina tot_!”

Sparks erupted from the cafeteria’s overhead lights like fireworks. The crowd ducked, then stared up at the ceiling, the magic of the music momentarily overruled by instinct. Thomas took this opportunity to beat an undignified retreat: he threw himself over one of the cafeteria tables and ran through the back doors like the hounds of Hell were at his heels. He left a part of his shirt behind him; some sophomore had nearly torn it off his body before the lights distracted her. Some of the girls wailed in disappointment and ran after him.

“Well, there goes our hero,” Xander said, as the lights ceased to hold the crowd’s attention.

“Trust me,” Harry said, sharply, “Thomas just did us all a favor. Now let’s get out of here before I have to beat off those PTA leaders with my blasting rod.”

 The gang managed to struggle through the throngs of bizarrely amorous festival-goers. None of them escaped without battle scars, mostly in the form of lipstick smudges or fingernail scratches. All the while, ‘Careless Whisper’ played on a seemingly endless loop. “Do you think, if we can stop the music, the enchantment will be broken?” Buffy asked, as she put yet another football player in a headlock.

“It’s a thought,” Harry said, decking the handsy male art teacher none too gently. “But I’m not sure we should waste time trying to find the source. The ritual could happen any minute now.”

 “Don’t you think they’ll wait for sundown, at least?” panted Willow. She whacked a freshman lightly with the nearest heavy object, a copy of the Merriam-Webster Dictionary.

“I doubt they’ll want to keep the sexual energy flowing that long,” Harry said. He used magic to slam the doors to the hallway behind them, leaving the chaos-driven hordes behind them for the moment. Buffy and company took some much-needed gulps of fresh air. “You see,” Harry went on, “the longer Papadopoulos or Priester has to keep this enchantment going, the thinner the magic becomes. They need to keep that wild, lust-powered spell in top condition in order to summon the goddess. I’d say we have fifteen minutes at most to stop the ritual.”

“And just to clarify the plan,” Xander said, “we are hoping to stake this goddess, right?”

“We’ve got the evergreen,” Harry said, as he pulled out one of the stakes from his coat.

“Okay, seriously, Mary Poppins,” Cordelia said, “how do you keep all that stuff in your pockets?”

“I have lots of pockets,” Harry said, defensively. “And I bear absolutely no resemblance to an English nanny!”

“A magical English nanny,” Buffy said. “Come on, Harry, everybody wants to be Mary Poppins. She’s practically perfect in every way.”

“Hello, people!” Willow cried. “Can we please focus? Dean, sacrifice, perverted sex cultists? Is this ringing any bells?”

The doors at the end of the hallway creaked ominously, strained by the weight of numerous bodies. “Willow’s right,” Xander said. “Let’s vamoose.”

Harry tossed each teenager an evergreen stake. Buffy led the way down the hall. At the junction of the south and west areas of the high school, they were reunited with Sam and Giles. The watcher and the hunter looked equally mussed by roving festival-goers. “No, we don’t want to talk about it,” Sam said prohibitively, as Xander opened his mouth.

“Indeed, no,” Giles muttered. Then he examined his charges carefully and asked, “Are you all right?”

“Aside from some lipstick stains that’ll never come out of this white shirt,” Buffy said, “I’m fine.”

“Sam and Giles are fine, Harry’s fine, we’re all fine,” Willow said, swinging her hands wildly. “Let’s get on with the evergreen and the ritual-stopping, okay?”

“Where’s Thomas?” Giles asked, somewhat warily.

“He had to make a run for it after the fiftieth high school girl tried to rip his shirt off,” Harry said.

Giles blinked. “Er, yes, I suppose he would.”

“We know where the cult’s got their altar,” Buffy told Sam and Giles.

“Where?” Sam asked, with a fierce glint in his eye.

Cordelia sighed. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but: let’s go to the gym.”

Sam’s knife-edge presence in their group pushed the gang to run the last couple corridors to the gym, the tension in the youngest Winchester leaching into his companions. By the time they burst into the wide-open space, the runes on Harry’s blasting rod glowed with magic, Buffy’s posture was tight and aggressive, and Giles gripped one of the stakes with the point jabbed forward like an accusatory finger.  

There was a good sized, plain white tent at the far end of the gym. Littered on the ground before it like litter upset by a strong wind, couples indulged in inadvertent goddess worship. Some of the couples were obviously festival-goers overborne by the magic of ‘Careless Whisper’, and others were cult members doing their part to summon their deity.

“Willow, Xander, Cordelia,” Giles said, “it pains me to assign you this task, but see if you can get some of these people out of here. Drag them if you have to.” When the teenagers only stared at the couples in horrified fascination, Giles turned to glare at them. “Please, do stare at them a little longer. That will certainly move things along.”

Willow, Xander, and Cordelia all stammered out apologies and hurried to do as Giles asked. “Grossville,” Cordelia complained, as she forced two high schoolers apart. “How come when people talk about heroes, this kind of revolting crap is never in the job description?”

“Come on, let’s get these people into the showers,” Willow said. When Xander gave her a sideways look, she rushed to explain, “Oh—uh--running water might break the enchantment. I’m not saying we should do anything weird with them in the showers.”

“Good thinking, Willow,” Harry said, approvingly.

“A cold shower’s not such a bad idea for these poor shmucks, anyway,” Xander said. “I’ll feel sorry for them when they figure out they’ve been sucking face with a total stranger.”

“Funny,” Cordelia said, “and here I thought you’d be happy to suck face with anyone.”

Harry, Buffy, Sam, and Giles all advanced on the white tent. They approached cautiously; the sides of the tent were pulled down and they wafted in some unseen breeze. “Let me go in first,” Harry said, as Buffy moved to enter. “And no, it’s not because I’m a macho man,” the wizard said, in response to Buffy’s glare. “I can put up a shield to protect myself from any magic thrown my way. Can you do that?”

Buffy stepped back. “Point taken.”

Buffy took the spot at Harry’s back, leaving Giles and Sam to fall in line behind her. With a focused breath, Harry pushed his way into the tent. He had barely made it through the door before the smell of ozone hit his nose. “ _Defendarius_!” Harry roared, and a bright blue circle of energy appeared before him just in time to deflect a crackling bolt of unnatural lightning. The fighters behind him all flinched in shock as they were blinded by the light.

“Harry,” said the voice of Alexis. The girl-shaped creature appeared in Harry’s line of sight once the spots cleared from his vision. “You’ve returned to play with us a second time. And you’ve brought friends.” Alexis licked her luscious pink lips at Buffy. “Your friends, who are just as powerful as you. You just love bringing supplicants to Our Lady, don’t you?”

“Listen, lady,” Buffy said, “I don’t do the whole supplicant thing, okay? I’m an American.”

“Then you’ve come to stop the summoning?” Alexis said. Her hands moved in a complicated pattern and static popped between her fingers. “My dear, you’re too late.” The static became sparks. “Play with me, Harry,” Alexis purred, and flung out her hands. White-hot arcs of lightning shot out from her fingertips.

Harry blasted the lightning back with a spell of his own. “Just curious,” Harry asked, “but were you once a human? Because that’s human magic you’re wielding, even if it’s been distorted by the goddess.”

Alexis tossed her perfect blonde hair. “I gave myself to the goddess millennia before you were a gleam in your father’s eye, wizard.”

“So you were a human?” Harry said, as he circled around her, drawing her away from Buffy, Sam, and Giles. “Did you do the whole sexual congress thing with the goddess? Did you trade your soul for a boob job and a Brazilian lift?”

“’Did’ is the wrong tense,” Alexis said, with a lascivious smile. “’Do’ is more appropriate. Once the goddess chooses you as her consort, you are hers for life. And my physical perfection…” She bounced a little and Harry did his best to keep his eyes on her hands. “That was a side effect of the goddess’s favor.” She casually flung another bolt at Harry’s mid-rift that he narrowly dodged. “But if you’re so curious,” Alexis said, “just wait and watch what happens tonight to your beautiful young lover. Bear witness to the birth of a new consort.”

“Like hell we will,” Sam snarled.

“Just for the record, we’re not actually lovers,” Harry said. “That was a clever ruse.”

“Still in the closet, Harry?” Alexis asked, and with a twist of her hips, she pulled more energy from out of the air.

“I was never in it to begin with! I’ve got this, kids,” Harry said, quite calmly, and once again deflected Alexis’s deadly magic. He raised his blasting rod. “Find Dean. Kick some butt while I’m— _Fuego!--_ kicking hers.” He dodged another volley, this time in the form of eerie blue fire. “I’ll meet you later to help with-- _Infringa!—_ the thing we’re supposed to do-- _Fuego!_ — _Forzare!_ —Seriously, people, go!”

Once again, Buffy led the way, past Alexis and Harry’s furious duel. Harry’s stentorian voice boomed out over the tent as they ran. The tent was much larger than it had first appeared on the outside, and in its depths reined chaos in its purest form. The remaining members of the gang nearly tripped over yet more writhing worshippers who were clustered thickly in groups at the middle of the tent, far enough away to face little danger from the magical duel. On the edges of the tent, low tables were decked with food and drink, and mixed crowds of cultists and festival-goers alike sat eating, drinking, and defiling both food and drink.

Giles put his mouth close to Buffy and Sam’s ears and shouted, “The altar! There, at the front!” and pointed. Buffy and Sam looked and saw where Giles was pointing. This was a real altar, not a card table in the middle of a clearing: about the width of a full-sized bed, it was made of wood carved with scenes much like the one taking place around them. Anthony Papadopoulos knelt before the altar-bed. He had finished drawing a large summoning circle all around the altar and was now lighting the last of the candles that had been placed in a diamond shape inside the circle.

“He’s about to summon the goddess!” Giles shouted.

For Buffy and Sam, no further explanation was needed: they ran as fast as their legs could carry them toward the altar, Giles hot on their heels. Buffy had just closed in enough to seize the back of Papadopoulos’s robe when the cult leader shouted out an ancient Greek phrase, and then finished in English. “Cybele, Cybele, Cybele! Great Mother, I call thee from your rest! Arise and bestow favor on your most willing servants!”

   The seductive eighties music that had pervaded the festival stopped. The worshippers all cried out at once in fairly orgasmic bliss. The summoning circle glowed incandescent white. Papadopoulos was thrown backwards, smacking into Buffy. As she righted herself, Buffy looked up and saw that the altar was no longer empty. There, on the smooth wooden surface, sat the goddess Cybele.


	21. The Circus Is In Town

To say that Cybele’s corporeal manifestation was not what anyone expected was an understatement. The statues of fertility deities in the books the gang had researched often featured hearty, curvaceous women in flowing robes or in the nude. But, to her opponents’ surprise, Cybele had changed with the times. The goddess had dark, perfectly-straightened hair with several swathes of dyed-honey streaks near her face. Her patrician features were dressed with what had to be high-end makeup. She sat on the edge of the altar, her crossed legs clad in bright blue capri pants and her finely-toned upper body dressed in an orange polo shirt. She smiled out at the people standing before her altar and lifted one manicured hand in a pageant wave. If not for the power crackling around her petite frame, Cybele would be indistinguishable from some of the women Sam and Harry had seen puttering around Sunnydale in their four-door sedans with two-point-five children in tow.

  For a moment, everyone blinked in confusion. Then Sam said, “You’ve got to be kidding me—Cybele is a _—_ a--”

“I think the term you’re looking for is ‘hot mom’,” Buffy said.

“Thank you, Buffy, darling,” Cybele spoke for the first time, and her voice, though maternal, was rich. It rang with power. “My, what a furor, all for my sake. I feel as if I’m back in Corinth on the eve of a memorable festival.” She inhaled and her spine lengthened. Buffy noticed that, even though she had the appearance of a respectable middle-class mother, Cybele was not wearing a bra. “I can smell the devotion in the air,” the goddess purred.

From his position on the floor, Anthony Papadopoulos sank to his knees in reverence. “Goddess Cybele,” he gasped, “all our preparation—all our hard work—and finally you’re here, in the physical world!”

“Uh, yeah,” Buffy said, “your hard work brought this cougar to the physical world? More like, all the innocent kids who _died_ on your altar raised a crazy chaos god.”

Papadopoulos glared at the slayer. “You should watch how you talk around the goddess, stupid girl. Her powers are indescribable. If she wanted to--”

“Don’t worry, Anthony, my love,” Cybele said, calmly, “Buffy is only afraid of my power. She knows that even a slayer is no match for a goddess.”

“I’m willing to test that theory,” Buffy growled, and gathered herself to strike.

“Buffy, wait—“ Giles said, but Buffy had already flipped herself up to the altar. With evergreen stake in hand, the slayer swung at the goddess with all her might, adding a kick to distract any possible counterstrike.

Cybele casually seized one of Buffy’s wrists mid-swing, pulled her forward, and snapped the protective amulet off her neck. Then, as Buffy frantically tried to take the charm back, the goddess waved a hand. The amulet combusted in a little puff of smoke, and [Cherrelle](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8BV1Ft4BQ1o) started singing from everywhere and nowhere about how she didn’t mean to turn her dinner date on. The worshippers in the tent resumed their previous activities, the music driving them to passion.

“Worship me, Buffy,” Cybele said, and looked deep into Buffy’s eyes. She smiled as the slayer struggled against her grip. “I will give you a power greater than the one you possess—I’ll give you power over mankind, not just power over monsters.”

Buffy threw her head back and groaned. The sound was sensual, and Giles and Sam were instantly uncomfortable. “I don’t worship monsters,” Buffy panted, even as she broke out in a sweat and started to react to the goddess’s magic. “You get off on sex and murder. I won’t worship that!”

“I don’t require spoken word for my edification,” Cybele purred. “Your body is worshipping me even now.” She let go of Buffy, who staggered and would have fallen off the altar if Giles hadn’t run forward and caught her. Cherrelle sang on, and Cybele’s magic continued.

Buffy clutched at Giles and stuck her nose in his hair. “Mmm, you smell like old books,” she said. “Why is that hot, suddenly?”

“God help us,” Giles said. He looked like he was torn between dumping Buffy on the ground and wrapping her up and running away with her in his arms. “We can’t do this without the slayer,” Giles told Sam, panic in his voice. Buffy latched her arms around Giles’s neck and rubbed her cheek against his. Giles’s real concern came out. “Sam, do something, for heaven’s sake! She’s just a child!”

Sam went from one side to the other, watching Cybele as she reveled in her worshippers, trying to keep an eye on Papadopoulos, who still knelt before his goddess, and trying not to watch Buffy get physical with her father-figure. He looked back and saw Harry, still battling it out with Alexis. Farther back, Willow, Xander, and Cordelia were working to save more people from the enchantments.

Sam seized the amulet cord around his own neck and lifted it over his head. He strode over and slipped it onto Buffy’s throat. Giles blanched. “That’s not what I had in mind!”

 “You’re right, she’s just a kid. Save Dean, or I’ll never forgive you,” Sam said, fiercely, even as his eyes clouded over and his breath grew uneven. “Gosh, is it hot in here?” the hunter asked, a moment later. “It feels so hot in here.”

“Sam,” Giles said, worriedly, as the younger man started absent-mindedly unbuttoning his shirt. “Sam!”

As Sam lost his mind, Buffy regained hers. She jolted into the moment and gave a disgusted shriek to find herself entwined around Giles. Giles let her flail out of his arms. “Oh, this just got so personal,” Buffy said, with furious intent. “First, her freaky cult kidnaps Dean, and then she makes me almost commit incest!”

“Well, technically,” Giles began, but then he swallowed and said, “No, you’re right. It might as well be incest.”

“How did you…” Buffy touched the amulet, then looked over at Sam. The hunter had taken off his shirt, and several of the worshippers in the tent had surrounded him. They all moved to the music in ways that contradicted the lyrics: clearly, they were all trying to turn each other on. “Oh,” Buffy said, soberly.

Giles pulled out his own stake. “Focus, Buffy.”

Cybele had watched the drama between her three enemies with interest. Now, her eyes dismissed Giles and Buffy and latched on to Sam. “What a magnificent man,” the goddess said. “Samuel Winchester, strong and bold and noble in his own way.” Then she sighed. “But he’s not at all my type. Still, it would be such a waste to leave him to the common revelry. Anthony, dear, you’ve been so loyal to me. You deserve a little something in return. Would you like to have him?”

In his makeup, white priest’s robe, and jewelry, Papadopoulos should have appeared harmless. But when his eyes roamed over Sam and his hands twitched as if in anticipation, Buffy felt real fear travel through her. “I would be honored to dedicate him to your glory, goddess,” Papadopoulos said, and he made the phrase sound terribly creepy. “And I guess we would have the matching set, then.” Buffy burned with fury when she understood what he meant by ‘the matching set.’

Cybele snapped her fingers, the worshippers danced away, and Sam came toward the altar like a man lost in a daze. He looked high and drunk at the same time, and when Cybele stared down at him, he grinned wildly. “I don’t know how I got to this party, but it’s awesome.”

“Touch him, and I’ll beat your brains out,” Buffy told Papadopoulos. She was deadly serious. Beside her, Giles nodded in agreement.

 “Be imbued with my favor, Anthony,” Cybele said, as she watched Buffy advance. “I do so love to watch you dance with a worthy partner.”

“Buffy!” Harry’s voice shouted, from much closer than before. The wizard ran between revelers toward the altar, looking worse for wear but victorious. Willow, Xander, and Cordelia raced behind him, dodging grabby hands. “Get back! He’s a wizard, too!”

Papadopoulos’s body suddenly fizzled with a pale imitation of the power that emitted from the goddess. He rose from his knees and held out his hands. Fire sprang into his palms. Giles and Buffy knew then that Papadopoulos was another consort to the goddess. The fair-featured man gave Buffy a smirk. “Don’t worry, Buffy,” he said. “I’ll make it good for him.”

Several things happened at once. Buffy charged toward the altar, Giles charged toward Sam, and Harry charged toward Papadopoulos. Cybele stood to strike down Buffy once again, to send her into worship again or to send her down to the ground. Willow, Xander, and Cordelia all pulled out stakes and yelled in defiance, ready to defend their friends.

Then, the music made an abrupt change from R and B to the adrenaline-laced strains of AC/DC’s ‘[Thunderstruck](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QVBAeS5t5nc)’. The side of the tent nearest the altar was slit from top to bottom by a shining steel blade. With a shove, Dean pulled himself through the side of the tent and hurtled toward the altar on bare feet. Apparently unwilling to wait until he reached the goddess himself, the hunter threw the second knife in his other hand with frightening accuracy. The blade would have sunk home in any other creature’s chest, but Cybele turned the knife aside at the last moment.

No one cared about the failed assassination. Everyone was staring at Dean, caught between horror and morbid curiosity. The hunter’s rage-filled countenance was at complete odds with his appearance. The cult had indeed waxed him and put product in his hair just like Cordelia had suggested, but they had also dressed him in a white robe similar to the priests’. He had copper jewelry on his wrists and ankles. Most shockingly of all: his eyes[ were lined in black](https://67.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m4e2avFA8K1qe8mqro1_500.jpg) and his eyelashes were coated in mascara. The cult had even given him some eyeshadow and shiny gold powder to highlight his bone structure. In other words, Dean had never looked so gay or so homicidal.

Dean was over his ultra-feminine accessories. He saw Sam, shirtless and standing before the goddess, and a sound of pure rage came out of his mouth. “I’m gonna cut your freakin’ heart out, you skank!” he yelled.

“Dean?” choked out Harry, even as he and Papadopoulos circled each other. “Are you okay?”

Dean turned his eyeliner-framed death rays on Harry. “Oh, I’m walking on sunshine, genius!”

“That’s what I thought,” Harry said, and he couldn’t help but laugh hysterically.

Dean pointed his remaining knife at Cybele. “If you want a sacrifice, you’re going to have to come and get it yourself, you psychotic man-eater!”

Cybele watched Dean’s display with rapture. “Oh, Anthony,” she said, “you and Anne have outdone yourselves, this time. I love him. He’s perfect.”

“Whatever,” Dean said, and lunged to attack.


	22. Cybele Is Fond of Pontification

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings apply to this chapter...

“You see,” Cybele said, as Dean ran full-tilt toward the altar, “it’s not virility that pleases me.” She stood and waited until Dean had gotten close enough that Willow could toss him her evergreen stake on his way to the altar, and then she sighed and said, “Manly men are violent, it’s true, and violence is a part of chaos. I thrive on the primal urges of my supplicants.”

“She’s worse than Giles in the blabber department,” Cordelia complained, loudly. “Does she not realize she’s about to get staked?”

“She’s not worried,” Buffy said, then yelled, “Wait, Dean!” and sprinted to help the hunter. 

Cybele allowed Dean onto the altar with her, and he even got in a few well-placed moves before she gave another sigh and said, “My dove, you only encourage me with these wild protective instincts of yours.” When Dean twisted to drive the stake into her heart, she hooked one capri-clad leg around his ankle and pulled. Dean landed on his back. Cybele waved a hand and Dean’s hands flew up as though pinned by shackles to the altar. He managed to hold on to the stake and knife, and he struggled defiantly even as the goddess stood over him.

“What I like about this one, Anthony,” Cybele said, as she slid gracefully down to straddle Dean’s hips, “is his soul. He’s such a nurturer at heart.”

“Yeah, I can tell that’s what you like about me,” Dean gritted out, as his body reacted to the presence of a chaotic fertility goddess making intimate contact with it. Cybele smiled and leaned a little further onto the hunter.

 “I’m happy he pleases you, Goddess Cybele,” Papadopoulos said.

“Hey, sunshine,” Harry snapped his fingers in Papadopoulos’s face, “we’re trying to have a duel, here. Focus.”          

Papadopoulos looked past Harry to where Sam still stood, waiting for the goddess. “I think I’m a little occupied, Harry.”

Harry looked mock-offended. “Are you going to stand me up for the younger, prettier model? I tell you, dark wizards have no class these days.” He held up his hand and shouted, “ _Forzare!_ ” Papadopoulos was caught off guard and went flying, borne by a gust of wind. “That’ll teach you to break a man’s heart, Anthony!”

Sam was momentarily forgotten as Papadopoulos righted himself and shook out his bracelets, gathering power from the energy stored in them. He held his hands together and then pulled them slowly apart. The floor beneath Harry’s feet cracked and broke in time with the movement of his opponent’s hands.

“Oh, earth magic,” Harry said, frowning intently, “that’s…great.”

“A little bird told me it’s not your specialty,” Papadopoulos said, with a grim smile.

“Whoever that little bird is, remind me to throw them down a mine shaft,” Harry said. Then he moved, bringing a flare of bright light from his blasting rod with him. “Clear the area, kids!”

Giles gathered his children close and pulled them to the other side of the altar, where they’d have little chance of danger from the wizard’s duel. “Willow, Xander, Cordelia, we must stop Cybele from—er—“

“Having her wicked way with Dean and turning him into Super Horny Psycho Dean?” Xander put in, helpfully.

“Yes, we must stop that at all cost,” Giles said. “Harry’s doing his part, now we must do ours.”

“Sam’s still standing there,” Willow cut in, urgently. “He’s gonna get hurt by the duel.”

“No way, Harry’s not going to hurt him,” Xander said, easily.

“Xander, I don’t know if you noticed, but Harry’s a little busy holding his own with Hercules In A Dress,” Willow snapped. “We have to get Sam out of there. He can’t save himself right now.” And without further ado, she scrambled back around the altar.

Giles tried to stop her. “Willow, no—“

It was no use. Willow ran past the straining figures of Harry and Papadopoulos and slipped right past the altar where Dean was losing his battle against the power of a sex goddess complete with slightly pornographic sound effects. Willow took Sam’s wrists in her hands and yanked him behind her. Then she turned and hurried back the way she came. Sam, under the power of the goddess, went all too willingly, staying close to Willow’s back. Just as she was about to bring them both to safety, the hole Dean had made in the tent spat out another enemy.

Anne Priester took in the scene with quick, heated eyes. She was dressed in something that could loosely be interpreted as clothing, and her chest still bore the bone figurine on its heavy necklace, but now she also had bracelets and anklets. Her chest heaved with anger, and her gaze landed on Willow and Sam, who were the easiest targets to reach. She raised a hand and shouted out an ancient Greek curse. A stream of thick, virulently yellow acid materialized in Priester’s hand and shot itself toward them.

Willow stood tall to cover as much of Sam as she could, then she whipped out another evergreen stake, pointed it like a baton, and screamed, “ _Defendarius!”_ The acid hit an invisible barrier before it could touch either Willow or Sam, but the effort of making the spell blew Willow backwards across the floor.

“Willow!” Harry cried, and almost tripped over the teenager’s sprawled form. “Baby steps, Willow, baby steps! We talked about this!”

“I think I might have a concussion!” Willow said, clutching at her head. “Also, thanks for not stepping on me!”

“What part of _baby steps_ did you not understand, kiddo?”

“The part where Sam and I get eaten by evil acid!”

   “Okay, point taken,” Harry grunted, as Papadopoulos tried to rend the earth out from under him.

Anne Priester came forward, murder in her eyes. With Willow blown across the floor, Sam stood directly in her path, oblivious under the power of the goddess and the magic of Triumph’s ‘[Lay It On the Line](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pz26fcmq3S8)’. “This must be Sam,” the priestess hissed.

Sam lifted carefree eyebrows. “That’s my name, sweetheart.”

Anne rolled her eyes. “ _This_ is the reason the goddess’s consort broke free of my enchantment? This doe-eyed _baby_? _This_ is his true love? Dean Winchester has horrible taste in lovers!”

“Um,” Sam said, still swaying to the music, “whoa, okay, lady: Dean is my brother.” He tilted his head back. “And I really like this song.”

“All it took was your name blossoming in his mind, and he broke free!” Anne turned almost purple in her rage. “He rejected me and he broke my curse! I’ve never been so humiliated!” She grasped Sam’s throat, her fingers like claws digging into his skin. Sparks flew out over Sam’s naked shoulders, and he gasped in pain as magic raced over him, seeking to burn him from the inside out.  

Buffy’s heel cracked into Priester’s shoulder with a solid thud. The enchantress lost her grip and tumbled to the ground. Buffy didn’t waste time letting the woman recover: she slammed her foot against Priester’s head, rendering her unconscious. “Okay, rave boy,” Buffy told Sam, “go over there with those party-hardies and don’t come out until it’s safe.”

“I must have taken some of the good drugs,” Sam managed, as Willow came back and shoved him toward Giles, Xander, and Cordelia.

“His brain clearly jumped back to the college days. Who knew Stanford boys were so edgy?” Buffy asked Willow.

“Buffy,” Willow said, deadly serious, “Dean!”

Buffy followed Willow’s outstretched hand and looked up at the altar, where Cybele was doing her best to make the hunter into her latest conquest. Dean was not going quietly, to the discomfort of Buffy and company. As they watched, the carved scenes around the base of the wooden altar started to smolder and flare with brightness, lit up from within by fire. Willow could feel power as it coalesced around the ritual Cybele had built around herself. The worship going on in front of the altar reached a maddened state. Buffy and Willow were grabbed from behind by several sweaty hands. If Buffy hadn’t yanked her out of the flow of revelers, Willow would have been consumed by the mass of people giving tribute to the goddess.

Harry and Papadopoulos had destroyed a good portion of the tent around the altar. Papadopoulos had created pits in the ground with his earth magic that he hadn’t bothered to fix. What Papadopoulos lacked in sheer magical power, he made up in cunning. Harry found himself in a dangerous position as he tried to herd the worshippers’ mad dance away from the holes in the gym floor, avoid the holes himself, and fend off Papadopoulos at the same time. When one of the revelers tried to wrap herself around the wizard, almost forcing Harry into one of the pits, Buffy made a critical decision.

“I have to help Harry before he gets buried alive!” she told Willow, over the sounds of sex and music. “Dean’s going to have to wait!”

Willow’s eyes grew saucer-wide. “But—Hercules! Bad, bad mojo! Freaky sex powers!”

“I know, Will, one thing at a time,” Buffy said, grimly, then flung herself into the wizard’s duel. She crashed into Papadopoulos so hard he lost his concentration on a spell. The magic dispersed with a rush of energy, shaking the gym itself as its power escaped into the air. Harry took the opportunity to gently shove the line of worshippers back, keeping them away from the fight, while Buffy put a few good blows in on Papadopoulos’s torso.

Willow stared after Buffy in anguish. “But, Buffy—but, Dean!” the teenager wailed, whipping her head from one struggle to the other. Then she gulped, said, “Oh, Fudgsicles,” and crept to the altar. Willow was smart, smarter than the average human, and she knew she stood little chance of stopping the goddess by the means Buffy or even Giles would usually employ. So she carefully took out one of the evergreen stakes from her pants leg and slunk low to the ground. She made sure she was completely behind the swaying back of the goddess as she worked her magic on Dean.

“You must say my name, darling,” Cybele gasped. “Invoke the name of your mistress, Dean Winchester.”

Dean said a good many things in response to that, but none of it was the goddess’s name. Willow winced at the hunter’s vocabulary, but given the circumstances she forgave him. Then she took a deep breath, rose up to her tiptoes, raised the stake high, and plunged it into the back of Cybele’s neck. The action itself was surprisingly easy to do; Thomas had sharpened the point so sharply the stake slid into the goddess’s skin and muscle like a knife through pot roast. Willow shoved with all her might, then dropped back to earth with a revolted cry. The stake had gone all the way through Cybele, from back to front, and blood trickled in small rivulets down her orange polo shirt. The goddess straightened, the stake forcing her neck up at a sharp angle. She turned around, leaving Dean pinned and swearing to the altar, and fixed her eyes on Willow. Cybele grasped the stake and pulled it out of her back, then cast it off the altar. As Willow watched, the gaping hole in the goddess’s neck stopped bleeding and knit itself back together.

 “Gulp,” Willow said.

Cybele cast a benevolent smile on the cowering teenager. “Ah, Willow. Willow Rosenberg, the child who wants so badly to be seen as a woman. Sweet, capable Willow.”

Willow gulped. “How do you know my name?”

Cybele smiled. “I’m a goddess, my dear. What don’t I know?”

“How to be a good person,” groaned Dean, in a voice drugged with power.

“I see such potential in you, my willowy maiden,” Cybele went on as if she hadn’t heard her unwilling consort. “More potential than I see in any other body here. Yours is an unparalleled mind, and your gifts are many.” The goddess tilted her head in a stately manner. “Why not worship me? I could give you what your heart most desires.”

“P-perfect SAT scores?” stammered out Willow, as she clutched the hex bag tighter in her hands.

“Men,” Cybele said, and with a snap of her fingers, the people around them froze in tabloids of violence. “Or women,” the goddess continued. “Power, Willow. I could give you the power to have anyone you wanted. I can give you anyone in the world. With my blessing, you would be your own goddess.”

Willow’s eyes bugged out of her head.

“You trifle with minor enchantments,” Cybele said, and swayed a little closer to her target. “With my power, I could make you rival the oracles of ancient times. Yours would be a legacy of knowledge. The people would praise your intellect…” The goddess smiled, “and of course, they would desire your beauty.”

“Um,” Willow said, “I-I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m not winning any beauty contests.”

“Trust me, pet,” Cybele said. “It’s not always about looks. With my blessing, the sheer power of your sexuality would make men throw themselves out of buildings, if you so wished it.”

She lifted her hand and beckoned one of the frozen men around them to stand in front of her. Willow swallowed: the man was Sam Winchester. “Any man would die for you,” Cybele said. “Even this man. Oh, don’t look shy,” as Willow averted her eyes, “I see that you desire him. Who wouldn’t?” The goddess licked her lips. “Such a mind, like the Greek philosophers of old. And nice trappings for that brain of his, too.”

 “What’s wrong with him?” Willow asked, her voice tight in her throat. 

With a flick of her made-up eyes, Cybele made Sam kneel before her. “He’s in my thrall, dear,” Cybele said. Carelessly, she reached out a hand and stroked Sam’s cheek. He laid his face in her palm like a dog would its master. “This is the power I can give you, Willow,” Cybele said, with a purr in her voice. “I can make you a goddess. For who but a goddess deserves a man like Sam Winchester? Without my aid, even a jewel such as yourself stands little chance of catching him.” She sighed. “Willful men, ever the bane of womankind.”

“Sam!” Dean shouted, even under the goddess’s magic. The oldest Winchester bent his body in an effort to escape the invisible bonds, but Cybele lifted a finger and laid him flat. “Don’t touch him, Cybele!”

Willow stared in appalled fascination at the goddess and Sam. Her mind flashed inadvertently to the time she had spent with Sam in the library, when he had told her to go to whatever college she wanted, because life was too short and she deserved to be happy.

 Tears filled Willow’s eyes. “Stop,” she said, as the tears spilled slowly down her face. “Stop. Stop that! I don’t want that—I don’t want men to-to worship me! I want boys to be interested in _me_ , for who I am!” She pointed at Sam. “And I would never do that to him! That’s—that’s—that’s sick. That’s like rape! He doesn’t have a choice!”

“What difference does it make?” asked Cybele. “You get what you want, in the end. That is the meaning of power, my dear. And don’t think that your thralls think it a great hardship. They enjoy it, too.” She leaned forward and kissed Sam full on the lips.

With a cry of rage, Willow threw herself at the goddess of chaos. She was a tiny high school girl, weaponless and powerless, but she was full of fury. Cybele stood and would likely have killed her attacker without a second thought, had Thomas Raith not come crashing onto the scene like a high-powered rifle shot.


	23. The Cavalry Is A Hot Mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Approaching some darkness in this chapter...

The people around her were still frozen, but Willow stood as witness to the terrifying reality of Thomas in full vampire mode. Unlike the vampires Willow usually encountered, Thomas’s face and teeth never changed; he was as handsome as ever, but the humanity he had exhibited so far had been submerged inside the vampire. As he slid, impossibly graceful, across the floor, and narrowly avoided crashing into one of the frozen revelers, Willow could feel and see the changes in Thomas. He seemed to exude dark power, and it was incredibly seductive to someone as ambitious as Willow.

            Thomas righted himself and walked calmly to the front of the tent, to stand before the altar. The shirt which had been rent by the crowds of spellbound festival goers was missing entirely, but Thomas had thrown on someone’s leather jacket to cover his torso. He looked like he would fit in better at a rave than a high school spring fling. But then, Willow reminded herself, this spring fling had turned into a rave. On Thomas’s belt, Willow could see evergreen stakes as they pressed against his skin. Willow had to remind herself that he was Harry’s brother and was therefore on the side of the angels, because the look he cast the goddess was one that could shrivel a lesser being where she stood.

            “Cybele, Cybele, Cybele,” Thomas said, and his voice was different, too, “goddess of chaos and fertility.” He pulled a stake out of his belt and flung it casually at the goddess. Cybele caught it in one hand, and Thomas smiled, slowly. Willow tried not to drool on the altar. “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?”

              Cybele seized Willow by the arm and threw her off the altar. Willow squeaked in protest. Thomas was waiting: he caught the girl before she could spill onto the floor. Willow looked up as Thomas looked down, and she started at the strange, silvery glint in the vampire’s eyes. Then she realized she had slid her hand inside the leather jacket and was now effectively feeling up Thomas’s chest. Thomas made a noise deep in his throat that sounded a little bit hungry. “Um,” Willow said, “uh, that hand is like a sovereign state. I am not governing its charters or-or mandates.”

            “Willow,” Thomas said, calmly, but his voice still made her shudder, “you’re a really nice girl, so I’m going to throw you on the floor, now.”

            “Okay…“ And without further ado, Willow found herself on her butt on the gym floor. Thomas walked around her, and Willow couldn’t help but watch him go, hypnotized. Then, as she shook herself, she listened intently and realized something else: the ubiquitous, racy music had stopped playing.

            For the first time that night, Cybele lost that look of supreme unconcern with which she had conducted herself as she wreaked havoc on Sunnydale High. Thomas came closer to the altar, the goddess drew herself to her full height, and suddenly, she wasn’t wearing capris and a polo shirt any more. Instead, Cybele was dressed in a long, Grecian dress over which was laced a leather chest guard. On her head rested a crown of golden grape leaves. She looked every inch an ancient goddess. 

“Have you come to worship me, too, demon?” asked Cybele, purring. “Many of your kind once offered me libations. What fine, devoted supplicants they were. I was never in want at their sacrificial rites.”

“You’re not talking to my demon,” Thomas said, still calm as a lake in winter, “you’re talking to me.”

“Am I, vampire?” Cybele slanted her eyebrows together. “Your mask seems to have slipped. Will you kill Willow, she who has seen your true face?”

Thomas held out his hands. “I don’t care if this whole town knows what I am. It’s not like they haven’t seen worse. I mean, face it, Cybele: _you’re_ worse.”  

Cybele held a hand to her breast as if offended and then intentionally let it wander. “You believe that I am worse than a demon who feeds on lust and drains its victims of life? No, my lovely vampire, I’m afraid not. I celebrate life. I do not siphon it away from my followers.”

“How can you say you’re not evil?” demanded Willow. She stood and pointed at the frozen figure of Papadopoulos, poised to unleash a spell at Harry and Buffy. “Your followers murdered teenage boys, and you seemed pretty okay with that! And you tried to rape Dean! As far as I know, Thomas never did anything like that! You’re as bad as it gets!”

“This is all really fascinating,” came Dean’s voice from the altar, as he writhed and panted, trying to break free of Cybele’s bindings, “but can you maybe gank the skank and get me off this thing? You can debate who’s the real evil afterwards!”

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Dean,” Cybele said. “I will make your sacrifice complete, momentarily.”

The goddess sliced her hand through the air, and all at once everyone flew into motion again. Harry, Buffy, and Papadopoulos renewed their fight like they had never stopped, the revelers started to party again, and Anne Priester stirred from her place on the floor. Sam stood up from where he’d been cast off the altar and looked confused as to how he got there. Giles, Xander, and Cordelia came out from where they were hiding. Xander immediately ran over to Willow and pulled her to her feet, then he startled. “How did Thomas get here?” Xander asked, flummoxed. “He magically appeared!” Willow didn’t bother trying to explain the time and space distortion Cybele had used.  

Giles seized Sam before the younger man could drift back into the miasma created by the goddess. “Jessica Moore!” Giles said, clearly. “Jessica Moore! Come on, Sam—“

Sam looked sharply at Giles and clarity returned to his eyes. “What just…” he mumbled, and then he looked around at the chaos of the tent. “Giles?” Sam asked, sounding lost.

“It’s all right, Sam,” Giles said, supporting the younger man with his own body weight.

Giles lied: it wasn’t all right. The wizard-and-Buffy duel continued unabated, although Harry and Buffy had the upper hand. The revelers continued to worship the goddess with unfettered passion. Dean was still bound to the altar, and the altar still smoldered with power as its unwilling sacrifice hung on the verge of completion. Cordelia and Xander watched the madness unfold, then turned to one another. “How do we stop this, Xander?”

Xander turned to her incredulously. “I think this is a little beyond you and me, Cordie. This has gone deep into Slayer territory.”

Cordelia stood still a moment longer and then snapped her fingers. “Hey! Xander, take me to the basement!”

“What? Cordelia, I know the mojo in the air’s making us all want the whoopee, but—“

“Ew, as if,” Cordelia snapped. “I’ve got a way to kill the vibe around here, you moron! We need the sprinkler system!”

“What do you…” Xander’s eyes widened and his mouth opened. “Oh! Oh! You—you made with the smarts, Cordie! Genius!”

“Okay, okay, less talking, more running!” Cordelia grabbed Xander’s hand. She pulled him along, out of the tent.

Buffy went sailing through the air, magic crackling after her like a comet’s tail. Harry roared in anger and rent the earth underneath Papadopoulos with a crack of his blasting rod. Papadopoulos gave a shriek of surprise and fell straight into the crevice. Only the top of his head could be seen.         

“Bury him alive, Harry!” growled Giles, as he ran to help Buffy stand. “Oh, dear—everyone, forget I said that.”

Sam did a very stupid thing and tackled Anne Priester before she could launch her own magical attack at Harry while he was distracted. The hunter’s superior bulk and muscle bore the priestess to the floor. Enraged, Anne raked her fingernails at Sam’s face. Sam instinctively moved to cover his eyes, giving his enemy the opportunity to breathe a spell into his ear, followed by a lascivious lick to his earlobe. Sam convulsed as if electrocuted and then lay gasping on the floor. “He can’t breathe!” Willow cried. For lack of any other option, the teenager flailed her hands for a minute, shook herself, dropped to the floor, hovered over Sam for a moment, and then started to give him mouth to mouth.

“Stupid little girl,” Anne Priester snarled. “You’re not going to get in the way of my revenge, this time.” She raised a hand, aiming directly for Willow’s heart. Willow laid herself flat over Sam, while Sam managed to clutch Willow to his chest even while he fought for air.

“Nope,” came Thomas’s voice, just above Sam and Willow, “I am.”

Cybele’s priestess had enough time to rear back in alarm before Thomas had drawn her against him and laid a searing kiss on her lips. Willow could only stare in appalled fascination as the woman’s body seized all over. Her lips broke free of Thomas’s just long enough for her to scream in what could only be terror, but her body displayed every sign of intense pleasure. Thomas forced her lips back to his own. Willow looked away, suddenly unable to bear the sight any longer; Thomas’s embrace was sensual in the extreme, but it was clearly meant to harm the priestess.

A few long moments later, Anne Priestess dropped to the floor of the gym, lifeless. Willow scrambled forward and felt for a pulse on the woman’s neck. She sighed when she caught a faint, tremulous throb underneath her hands. She shook Priester hard, but there was no response. Willow looked up at Thomas. The vampire’s eyes now shone silver, almost metallic in their brightness. “Pretty,” Willow found herself saying, “but terrifying.”

“The spell should be broken, now,” Thomas said, his voice even darker than earlier.

Willow shivered in response, giving a little sigh in reaction to the vampire’s power. Then she unthinkingly did something very brave: she glared at Thomas in all his dark sexy vampire glory. “Aren’t you supposed to be helping Dean, Mister Casanova?” With a startled laugh, Thomas turned sharply away. Beside her, Sam gave out a sharp cough. Willow helped him into the recovery position, pushing Anne Priester and Thomas out of her mind.

In spite of the party crasher, Cybele had gone back to making her final marks on Dean. Her intended consort had fought off the magic as long as he could, but with Cybele’s power pressing down on him once again, his mortal body couldn’t hold it off forever. Dean lay underneath the goddess, and as she pressed herself closer to him, hints of red-hot energy began to spark over his flesh. Dean was so exhausted from his earlier struggle that he hardly even felt the sparks.

“I was hoping for a chance to fully consummate this sacrifice,” Cybele said, through her breaths of exertion, “but that shall have to wait for another time.” She leaned down and gazed deep into her unwilling lover’s eyes. “Say. My. Name.”

“Dean!” several voices shouted at once. Buffy flew to her feet, but she staggered in pain. Harry left Papadopoulos in his hole and charged toward the altar, but he wouldn’t make it in time. Giles left Buffy where she limped and ran to help Dean, but he was slower than Harry. Sam could only gasp Dean’s name as he lay on the floor, still pulling air through tortured lungs.

Dean’s eyes danced away from the goddess to watch his friends try to save him, but his lips still obeyed her command. “Cybele…”

The red sparks danced and increased. “Again,” Cybele said, urgently, as the power around the altar flared.

            “Cybele…”

            “Oh, yes,” the goddess hissed, throwing her head back. The hunter under her flinched as the power built within him. “Once more, Dean!”

            “Cybele!”

            “No!” Harry, Giles, and Sam all cried, in horror, as the symbols around the altar shone white-hot. Dean’s eyes shone the same color as the symbols and his skin gave off a bronze glow. The revelers shouted out Cybele’s name. An ear-splitting sound, like a supernatural air-raid siren, pierced the air. The humans all around the altar screamed in pain and sank to the floor, their hands clapped to their ears. Harry and Willow, much more attuned to the magic bursting through the altar, fell dead to the world.

            There were only two people left standing in the wake of the power surge. One of them was Cybele, drunk on her own power, moaning in ecstasy as her magic found its purchase in the man beneath her. The other was a vampire. Thomas leapt onto the altar with unnatural agility and took Cybele’s face in his hands. The goddess was too high on power to truly comprehend her opponent’s intentions as he looked her in the eyes and said, clearly, “My name is _Thomas_ , since you didn’t ask. Not demon, not vampire: _Thomas_.”

            “You’re too late,” Cybele said, with a throaty purr. “My consorts shall defend me, including the man you tried so hard to save.”

            “Oh, I’ll deal with him in a minute.” Thomas made the threat sound like a loving caress. “I’m putting you down first, sweetheart.” And without further equivocation, he slid his hands into the goddess’s hair and kissed her.

            The struggle between vampire and goddess seemed to go on for hours, but in reality it lasted barely five minutes. Thomas was an unstoppable force when he let loose the demon inside him. What had happened to Anne Priester was nothing compared to how he dealt with Cybele. If the humans in the gym had been aware at the time, they would have all shrunk away from the deadly beauty of the vampire’s violent seduction. Since their hands were still clapped to their ears, they didn’t hear the goddess’s maddened shriek turn to sobs as she was forced to experience the sort of pleasure she unleashed on her own supplicants. The only cognizant person not locked in the lethal embrace was Dean.

As Thomas finished with Cybele and her dead body dropped to the floor, Dean rose to his feet. He stretched out a hand and a flicker of bronze flame played around his fingers. “Dude,” Dean said, and his voice seemed to echo with power, “I’ve been imbued. I’ve got mojo.” He held the bronze flames close to his face and then looked at Thomas. “You killed my goddess.”

Thomas grinned, and even in his own power-drunk state Dean could see the vampire was riding some kind of high more powerful than his own. “You bet I did, kid. And I’d do it again.”

“Well, you’ve got to die, now, Thomas.” Dean shook his head, and then his eyes shone golden. “That sucks, man.”

“Dean.” Thomas’s voice made the hunter shudder so intensely the bracelets on his arms rattled. “Surrender to me. Give me the power. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“No,” Dean groaned. “I’m loyal to the goddess—“

“You just met the woman, and also, she tried to kill us all.”

“I’m not into dudes, Thomas—“

“Neither am I. Life sucks. Surrender,” Thomas growled, and closed the distance between them.

“What is this, a bodice-ripper novel?” Dean said, but the last part of the sentence was lost in a sigh as Thomas seized his hands and kissed each one. “Wow, this is so _gay_ ,” Dean continued, but he reached forward anyway.

“Dean, no,” Thomas said, and turned his head from Dean’s. 

“You’re so pretty,” Dean said. “It’s freaking me out, but in a good way.”

“I just need to drain you of the goddess’s power--”

“Take it, take it, take it.” Dean was lost, caught up in the power that had transferred from Cybele to her vampire assailant. Thomas had been darkly sexual before, but now the power of his demon was amplified by the energy he’d stolen from the goddess. Dean had been held down on that altar too long, and he was susceptible to any chaotic power pushed his way. When he tried to get closer, Thomas pushed him back while still keeping hold of his wrist, and Dean groaned in disappointment. “Come on, Thomas, don’t wind me up to let me down! Help a brother out!”

“Poor choice of words,” Thomas said, even as he fought off the impulse to take what the delirious Dean was offering.

“Just do something!” Dean cried, frustrated.

“I’m not going to kill you while we’re both high,” Thomas snapped. “Now shut up and hold still.” He tightened his grip on Dean’s wrists and trembled as more power fed into him. Dean’s eyes lost the golden sheen and Thomas sighed in relief.

“Hey,” Dean pointed over Thomas’s shoulder, “is Harry okay?” Thomas, unfocused as he was with so much power in his veins, fell for it and looked back. While he was distracted, Dean pulled his hands from the vampire’s grip and seized Thomas by the back of the neck. Then he laid one on him.

Giles and Harry found them a moment later, as the two men scrambled up from the floor, bewildered but ready to kick some goddess butt. They were too late to defeat Cybele or Priester, but they were just in time to separate a ferociously amorous Dean Winchester from an increasingly power-drunk Thomas Raith.

“My eyes,” Harry wailed, as he bodily hauled Thomas off Dean. “Oh sweet seraphim, my eyes!”

“I believe this is what my university friends would term ‘blackmail material’,” Giles said. He pulled a barely-conscious Dean away from the vampire. “Come on, now, Winchester, you’ve had enough fun for one day.”

“Where am I?” asked Dean, his words slurred together Giles had a hard time picking them out. “Wh-where’re we going?”

“You’re going to sleep, shortly,” Giles said. He took pity on the younger man and laid him gently against a speaker stack. “Just rest here for now, Dean. You’ve had a long day.” Dean was unconscious seconds later.

Harry had a much more difficult job: he stood in front of his brother and attempted to keep back the mad revelers as they flocked to Thomas’s magnified power. The worshippers all looked the worse for wear after such a wild evening, but they showed no signs of stopping as they tried to get close to Thomas. Some of them threw off what little clothing they still had, others pulled Harry away from his power-drunk brother with little consideration for Harry himself. “Giles,” shouted Harry, even as he disappeared in a pile of warm bodies, “we have to get Thomas out of here before someone gets killed!”

“Killed?” Giles repeated, aghast. “Killed by what?”

“Thomas is not a blood-sucking vampire!” Harry answered, shoving back against the revelers. “He’s a White Court vampire!”

Giles’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

“What does that mean, Harry?” asked Buffy. She had recovered from Papadopoulos’s attack. She stood in front of Thomas and swept several eager worshippers to the floor.

Harry held his blasting rod above his head to prevent two bra-clad women from stealing it. “Basically? Thomas’s M.O.: death by orgasm!”

“Well, in the name of honesty, I can think of worse fates,” muttered Giles, but then he shouted, “Xander and Cordelia went to remedy the situation! They should have found the basement by now!”

Buffy opened her mouth to respond, but a tall boy in a pair of skinny jeans and nothing else pushed close to her, forcing her backwards. She felt a pair of hands gently grab her arms. The touch was electric, sending an unbelievable amount of sensation through her body. Buffy couldn’t help the embarrassing noise she made as she turned around and met Thomas’s eyes. “Hey, Buffy,” Thomas said, silver gaze staring straight at her.

Buffy had wound her hands in Thomas’s hair before she even knew what was happening. “Giles,” she squeaked, but it came out more as a licentious moan, “help!”

“Now, really,” Giles said, loudly, “I’ve had enough of—of these shenanigans! Too many advances have been made on my slayer for one day, thanks very much!” He stormed through the crowd and slid himself into what little space remained between Buffy and Thomas. “You may be tripping on chaos magic, Thomas, but you still can’t have Buffy!” Giles reprimanded. Then he blinked and tugged at his collar while Thomas stared at him like Giles was a delicate gourmet item at a foodie restaurant. “Erm—and you c-can’t have anyone else, for that matter,” Giles stuttered out, while his hands undid his shirt buttons.

Thomas pulled one of the worshippers into his arms and gave her a lingering kiss. The woman sighed like an Elvis fan before she slipped to the floor, completely unconscious. “Actually, Giles,” Thomas said, still in that different, darker voice, “I’m pretty sure I can have _everyone_ I want, right now.”

With a sinking feeling, Giles knew he was right. Giles himself felt compelled to reach out and touch the vampire, out of some morbid curiosity and an irresistible attraction that he knew could only be artificial. Giles was not a traditionalist in any sense of the word, but he had never once felt attracted to anything that wasn’t one hundred percent human female.

Before anything truly regrettable could occur, a hissing noise echoed down from the roof of the gym. Water droplets hit the top of the tent. Giles stared up for a minute, puzzled and dazed by the magic thick in the air. Then Harry shouted out, “A- _ha_!”, the tent roof tore unnaturally from one seam to the other, and the water from the overhead sprinkler system showered the gym’s occupants.

Five minutes later, many of the half-clad revelers stopped their mad crush towards Thomas. They stood around, blinking in confusion, and then they looked down and saw themselves for the first time that night. Some of them shrieked in horror and ran out of the tent as fast as their raved-out legs could carry them. Others sat down on the floor, huddled up with their knees to their chests. Those who had belonged to the Cybele cult tried to make their escapes, but Buffy quickly subdued those revelers and left them all safely hog-tied at the front of the gym.

By the end of the ordeal, the gang surveyed the damage with grim eyes. The Sunnydale High gym was littered with the remains of the tent and articles of clothing. The holes in the floor where Harry had dueled with first Alexis and then Papadopoulos would not be easy to fix. Likewise, the large altar would be hard to explain to authorities whenever they were inevitably called in.

The damage to the spring fling goers could have been much worse. Par for the course, the Winchesters, Buffy and company, and Harry and Thomas had sustained the most damage during the battle for the spring fling. Harry, Giles, Xander, and Cordelia were the only people in their gang with enough leftover strength to physically carry the others back to the library to recuperate. “We may as well stay here tonight,” Giles groaned, as he laid an exhausted Buffy down on his coat on the floor. “With the state these children are in, we’ll never get them home without someone passing out on the doorstep.”

Harry grunted in agreement as he hauled his own burden through the library doors. After the sprinklers had broken some of the goddess’s lingering enchantments, Thomas had fallen asleep at the drop of a hat, harder than his brother had ever seen before. “This is weird, seeing him like this,” Harry said, as he put Thomas in a corner of the library. “For all that he’s a lust-demon vampire, he doesn’t party this hard.”

“Well, no one parties as hard as a fertility-slash-chaos goddess, and that is what Thomas became, temporarily,” Giles said, wryly.

“Touché.” Harry chuckled tiredly. “Man, I am never gonna let him live this one down. All in good fun, of course—if Thomas hadn’t been there, things would have taken a nasty turn.”

Giles snorted. “I believe you mean a nastier turn.”

Harry yawned massively and settled down in one of the chairs around the longest table. “Nah, that? That was a light skirmish, Giles. That was a kids’ pizza party. Now, Bianca’s Ball? That was a tight spot.”

Giles watched the wizard as he laid his head on the library table and drifted off to sleep. The watcher leaned back against the stairs and breathed out a heavy sigh. “Nutters, the lot of you,” Giles said, as he gave in and sank against the stairs, dropping into slumber.


	24. The Cliched End of the Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, everyone! I hope you enjoyed the ride on the crazy train. :) I had a good time writing it!

The smell of bacon, eggs, and toast woke Sam around eight o’ clock the next morning. The wakeup would have been far more pleasant had Sam’s head not felt like it had been shoved into a subwoofer during a metal concert. He moved like a sloth, rolling cautiously to one side and lifting himself off the floor one small increment at a time. Sam put a hand to his head and inhaled slowly through his nose. His mouth felt like the Texas countryside, scrubby and dry. He couldn’t recall the binge, but he certainly had the hangover.  

“Good morning, sunshine!” boomed out a loud voice from somewhere above Sam.

The hunter winced and groaned. “Harry, please…”

Harry grinned from his place standing over Sam. In his hands, he held a Styrofoam to-go container that held a fairly hearty diner breakfast. From his fresh-faced appearance and clean clothes, an outsider would never know that Harry had taken and dealt several beatings the night before. “Sorry, Sam,” Harry said. “You’re just feeling the comedown from getting your chaos freak on last night.” He offered the box of food. “Me and Buffy and Giles got breakfast for everybody.”

Sam glowered at him, but he accepted his breakfast tribute. “Thank you,” he said, mumbling around a mouthful of toast.

“You’re welcome,” Harry said, and his fond look reminded Sam too much of Dean.

“Dean…” Sam said, mouth frozen in midbite. “Dean.” He looked up at Harry, wide-eyed. “Harry! DEAN!”

“Whoa, whoa, kiddo,” Harry said, as Sam nearly dropped his breakfast in his rush to look around, “Dean’s going to be fine. Take it easy. You look like a strong wind would blow you over, this morning.”

As Sam looked around, he saw the effects of post-Cybele hangover on the rest of the crew. Now that his brain had gotten past its initial ‘where’s Dean?’ panic, he could see that his brother was curled up right beside him on the library floor, still asleep. Since Dean was out of danger, Sam took a moment to grin stupidly at the fact that no one had changed Dean out of the ritual gown and jewelry. There was still makeup on his face. Beyond Dean’s sleeping form, Sam could see Willow, Xander, and Cordelia as they woke up. Buffy had shaken them all awake and given them the same to-go containers that Sam had received. Giles and Buffy were dressed and clean like Harry. Everyone else was still in their old clothes and looked like they had rolled around on the floor a few times during the night. Even Willow’s board-straight hair was tousled. The only two people still asleep were Dean and Thomas. After they were all awake, everyone tiptoed around the two sleeping men with the care usually reserved for napping infants--everyone except Cordelia.

   “Oh. My. Gosh,” Cordelia exclaimed, as she peered in the compact mirror from her purse, “Look at my hair! It looks like some birds made a nest in there!” Her voice echoed in the library rafters. Everyone turned and stared at Cordelia, who looked away from combing her hair long enough to say, in a loud, irritated voice, “What? Why is everyone looking at me? I just told you my hair is a nightmare. Just avert your eyes!”

There was a groan from Sam’s right, and Sam saw Dean’s shoulders move. “Nice going, Cordelia,” Sam heard Xander say, sarcastically. Dean curled up further into himself and ran slow fingers through his hair, like he was feeling for a concussion he wouldn’t find. Across the room, Thomas slept on. Sam could only figure that the vampire was nearly comatose in order to be so unaware of his surroundings.

“Coffee,” Sam said, urgently, and Giles passed him a hot to-go cup. The younger Winchester put a hand to Dean’s shoulder and said, gently, “Hey, Dean, how are you feeling?”

“Like crap,” came the predictable reply. Dean rolled onto his back gingerly, testing out how his abused body would react to the change in position. He put his hands to his face, then drew back his fingers and growled at the black smudges on their tips. “Really, Sam? You let me sleep all night with this stuff on my face?”

“Uh, I didn’t on purpose,” Sam said, rolling his eyes. “I was as unconscious as the next raver last night, Dean.”

This statement seemed to shake the sleep from Dean’s brain. He sat up, accepted the coffee, did his best to sit appropriately in his white robe, and gave Sam one of the critical glances he had learned from their father before he could shave. “Are you okay, Sammy?”

Sam let the diminutive go for now. “Yeah, I’m fine. A little traumatized, but I’ll live.” Dean sipped the coffee and nodded. “Are you okay?” Sam asked him back.

Dean shook the bangles out on his wrists. “I’ve got to say, it’s not been one of my favorite weeks. This cult was seriously messed up. Now, give me some monsters to waste, and I’m your guy. But plain old humans getting so twisted by their evil deity…”

“Yeah.” Sam ate some more of his breakfast. Several moments passed in silence, then Buffy walked up and sat down across from the Winchesters, her own breakfast resting in her lap. She had put her hair in a cute little up-do and she wore a white blouse and pink shorts with pineapples on them that seemed at odds with her destiny as The Slayer. Sam liked the ensemble; it didn’t suit The Slayer, but if suited Buffy. He smiled. “Morning.”

“Morning,” Buffy said, with an answering smile. Then she pulled a pack of baby wipes from her pack and handed them to Dean. “I thought you might want something to clean off the drag-queen getup.”

Dean’s eyes lit up and he snatched the baby wipes with a grateful sigh. “I love you, Buffy.”

“Let’s not be too hasty,” Buffy said, as Dean swiped at his face, rubbing off the makeup. “They’re baby wipes, not a marriage proposal.”

“You want some jewelry?” Dean asked, as he slipped the bangles off his wrists and ankles.

Buffy shuddered dramatically. “Ugh, no thank you. I can’t stomach owning a little piece of the sex cult.” She tilted her head, considering. “Nope, I think I’ll make some bullets out of those copper beauties.”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll take ‘em,” Harry said, cheerfully. He sat at one of the library tables, polishing the long wooden staff he had lost somewhere in all the cult madness. “Copper’s a great conductor. It’s useful for all kinds of spells.” Dean chucked the bangles at the wizard, who caught them and stuffed them in one of his many pockets.

“Not that I’m not happy you look good as new, Harry,” Buffy asked, curiously, “but, um, how do you look good as new? I mean, I’ve got my Slayer powers and that’s why I heal fast, but you definitely took the brunt of the beatings last night.”

“The same principle applies to wizards,” Harry said, nonchalantly. He added a bit of carving to the end of his staff with a small knife. “We heal freakishly fast, and we can take more damage than the average human. Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if The Slayer was more than a little powerful, magically.”

Buffy snorted. “Yeah, I’m just a regular Merlin.” She took a drink from her coffee cup. “Nope, not a magical bone in my body. That’s Willow’s specialty.” Willow heard her from her spot on the other side of the bookshelves and blushed.

“Don’t be so sure, Buffy,” Harry said, with a smile that showed he meant no offense. “Not all magically strong people are wizards or witches.” He carved another rune. “Take Sam, for example.” Sam choked on his eggs. “He’s got a store of potential magical energy bottled up in his essence,” Harry went on, as Sam stared at him with his mouth open, “but it’s not necessarily the kind of magical energy that will translate into wizardly activities. In order to be a good wizard, you have to practice and discipline yourself for years before you can do more than give someone a nosebleed. The Slayer must have a similar energy, too, to pull off the things you’re capable of.”

Dean slapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder and used it to stand up. “Well, that was real interesting, Professor Dresden. You got any clothes in those pockets? If not, someone’s gonna have to give me a ride to my motel, because I am not staying in this nightgown any longer than absolutely necessary.”

With Dean dragging all the attention toward himself, Sam got to process Harry’s off-handed observations, but he couldn’t make much sense out of him. Buffy gave Sam a sympathetic smile and a shrug, then she got up and started bantering with Dean over the merits of dresses versus jeans.

“Well, you might have a point,” Dean was saying, “but I’ve worn pants my whole life, and I’m sticking to them.”

“What, are you not willing to broaden your horizons, Dean?” asked Buffy, teasingly. “Afraid to explore some alternative culture?”

“I’ve had about as much alternative culture as I can take, thanks anyway,” Dean said, with a scowl. “Between wearing a gown and kissing a dude—“ The older Winchester blanched, suddenly, and grabbed the table to steady himself. “Oh, man—son of a—“

“Dean!” Sam and Giles both shouted, sharply.

“Sorry, sorry,” Dean stammered, “just having a minor identity crisis, but please, worry about the kids’ ears.”

“There’s no identity crisis here, Dean,” Harry hastened to say. He had put down his staff. “Look, you were under the influence of some hellishly powerful compulsions—“

“I kissed a _dude_!” Dean hissed, and then he looked at Harry in horror. “I kissed your brother—Harry, that’s like _kissing my own brother_! And I don’t mean on-the-forehead, totally-not-romantic kissing--”

“I was there, I remember,” Harry said, clearly unwilling to go into detail.

“And I practically forced Thomas to do it, too!” Dean looked a little green around the gills and he sagged against the table. “Man, not only did I turn gay for like five whole minutes, I also violated a freakin’ vampire!”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Giles said, forcibly calm. “Now, Dean, I understand you may need some time to work through the lingering effects that Cybele had on you, but I think it would be best if you did so off of school grounds. You and Harry go and fetch some of your clothes. We’ll all stay here and recuperate.”

Harry took this as his cue to herd Dean out the door. Sam could hear the wizard start to reassure Dean as they walked off down the school hallway. Whatever Harry acted like at times, Sam knew he was a good person and that he cared about Dean quite a bit. The times their father had left the two of them with Harry while he went on a hunt rose to Sam’s mind. Very few people earned so much trust from a hunter like John Winchester, and even fewer people earned Dean’s trust. As he watched his brother walk away, Sam could read in the set of Dean’s shoulder that he would listen to what Harry had to say.

“Well,” Giles said, bringing Sam back to the present, “now that we’ve got a little bit of hush, who wants some tea?”

The rest of them gathered around while Giles made a couple different flavors of tea. Thomas slept on in the corner. Cordelia peered over at the vampire and asked, “Are you sure he’s not dead?”

“He’s obviously breathing,” Buffy said, deadpan.

“Okay, well, I was just asking,” Cordelia huffed. “Because he kind of looks dead.”

“He had a rough night, just like everybody did, only ten times worse.”

Sam jiggled his tea idly in its cup and let the bickering roll over him like waves on a lonely beach. He only looked up when Willow reached out and slid the items he’d missed in the chaos of the spring fling across the table to where his hand rested on its surface. “I thought you might need those back,” Willow said, shyly. “And also I, uh, needed to practice a divining spell, so it seemed like a good time to try.”

Sam lifted the silver chain with its crucifix and Saint Jude medallion onto his hand, then he slipped it over his head. The little items made a pleasant weight against his chest. “Thanks, Willow. I almost forgot about them.”

“That’s not right, you know,” Willow said.

Sam still wasn’t completely focused on the conversation. “Huh?”

Willow pointed at the saint medallion. “Saint Jude’s not the right one. You’re not a hopeless case.”

A trickle of warmth spread through Sam, and he gave Willow a genuine smile. “I’m not?”

“Of course not,” Willow said, as if surprised that he would ask. “Nobody is—well, except maybe those sex cult-y people.” Grinning, she added, “[Saint Hubert](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hubertus)’s far more appropriate.”

“Which one’s Saint Hubert?”

“The patron saint of hunters, of course,” Willow said.

Sam laughed, Willow’s eyes sparkled, and the background noise of Buffy, Cordelia, and Xander arguing over which bad guy was the worst they’d fought created an atmosphere that, for the first time in a long time, seemed comfortable for all of them.

The day passed in relative quiet for the heroes of Sunnydale. The gang had a chance to relax and recover from their encounter with Cybele and her worshippers. Harry and Thomas, once the vampire had awoken from his energy-drained sleep, had left town once the afternoon rolled around. They had both been away from Chicago too long. Harry had exchanged brotherly hugs and back slaps with Dean and Sam. Dean had nervously apologized about his behavior of the night before to Thomas, who blew it off with an easy shrug and a promise to never mention it again. Sam and Harry had a very quiet but intense conversation, the contents of which was not disclosed to either of their older brothers.

After the first set of brothers departed, night fell, and Buffy invited everyone to her house for a ‘hey-look-we’re-still-alive-and-not-possessed-or-Hercules’ dinner party. Giles brought hummus, Willow brought fizzy drinks, Xander brought chips, and Cordelia brought cookies. Dean and Sam brought pizza and pretended not to feel touched when they were included in the celebration with the same easy familiarity that Buffy’s gang welcomed everyone who helped them save the world. Even Joyce, Buffy’s mom, graced the evening with her (very confused but obliging) presence. Buffy lied to her mom about how she knew Sam and Dean—the cover story was long and involved several of Willow’s family members twice removed—and Sam and Dean did their best to charm Joyce into accepting their admittance into the fold. Sam started up a conversation about art from the late Greco-Roman period and Joyce ate out of his hand (although not literally). 

 

* * *

 

Across town in the abandoned warehouse, Drusilla burst free from the coffin she had struggled to escape for the past three days. She clawed the last pieces away and tumbled to the floor, hissing in pain as her leg grazed the fine silver chain wrapped around the coffin’s middle hinge. Scrambling to her feet, Drusilla ran over to Spike where he was still bound to a support pillar. “Come on, love, hurry up,” Spike said, as Drusilla’s hands fluttered uncertainly around the silver coin stuck into the lock on the chains.

“Don’t snap at me, Spike,” Drusilla pouted. She covered her hand with her skirt and carefully pulled the coin out of the lock. Then she found a bit of stray wire and set to picking the lock. There was a satisfying click, Drusilla unhooked the lock from the chains, and Spike fought his way out of restraint.

“Finally!” Spike roared, shaking out his limbs. “Now, we can go find that little choir boy Winchester and put some real fear of God into him!”

“Or fear of Spike and Drusilla,” Drusilla said, giggling. “Sounds scarier to me, love.”

“Right you are, darling,” Spike agreed, with a growl. “After all, big man in the sky ain’t here, is he? But we are.” He reeled Drusilla in and snapped playfully at her neck. Drusilla giggled and wiggled accordingly.

“I don’t want the choir boy,” Drusilla said, twisting her hands and licking her teeth. “I want the one with the green eyes. He’s prettier.”

“Well, can’t argue with that logic,” Spike said. “You can have whichever hunter you want, baby. Heck, I’m feeling generous: you can have ‘em both, and I’ll take the wizard and the pretty-boy vamp. We’ll double-dutch it.”

“I’m so hungry,” Drusilla sighed, smoothing her hands over her stomach. “I don’t like the coffin, Spike.”

“We’ll make them pay for putting you in there, Dru, don’t you worry!”

Spike ran to the warehouse doors and flung them open. The moonlit sky poured light into the echoing, desolate space, illuminating the vampire’s demonic features as his face transformed in response to his hatred. “Sam Winchester,” Spike shouted, “I’m coming for you, and nobody can stop me! Not your big bro, not your little Slayer friends, and certainly not that lame excuse for a wizard in a leather trench coat!”

“I’ll stop you.”

Spike most certainly did not let out a startled yelp. And he certainly didn’t flinch away in fear when he beheld the figure that stood before the warehouse doorway. In Spike’s eyes, the man was not very tall or impressive. He had a generic face and bland clothes which would blend into any suburban scene. But the moonlight limned his figure in a radiance which could only be described as celestial. Even in the dark, Spike could see the way the man’s eyes shone with purpose.

“Oh, wonderful,” Spike croaked.

“What is it, love?” Dru asked, from behind him.

“Nothing, Dru,” Spike said, sharply, “get away from the light.”

“Why, Spike? S’moonlight, it’s not going to burn me.”

Drusilla stepped next to Spike. She saw the figure standing in the doorway and gave a shriek of terror. Spike tried to hold her, but she pushed him away and fell violently to the floor, clutching her hair and wailing. Spike stood and watched her helplessly. “What’s wrong with her?” Spike demanded, but his voice was not as steady as he would have liked.

“I can stand here all night, keeping watch,” the man said, calmly, over Dru’s screams, “or you can agree to remain here until the Winchesters have left town. It’s your choice.”

“What’s wrong with Dru?”

“Nothing,” the man said. “She’s a prophetess that was corrupted years ago. She’s reacting to my presence in the only way she can.”

“Th-That doesn’t make any sense,” Spike managed to stammer. The light around the man’s outline had started to hurt his eyes. He put up one hand to shield them.

“The longer I stand here, the more she hurts,” the man said. Drusilla gave out a particularly plaintive cry as if to emphasize the point. “Will you agree to stay here until the boys leave town?”

“Why do you care if I do?” Spike asked. “What, are those goody-two-shoes Hardy Boys important or something?” He aimed for hostile, but the words came out rather tremulous.

“None of that is your concern, Spike,” the man said. “Now, your word.”

Spike wanted to rebel. He wanted to spit on this man’s luminous face. He wanted to sink his fangs into that poised neck. He wanted to inspire in this creature a small measure of the terror it had inspired within Drusilla and, if he was honest, within himself. Instead, he had no choice but to bow his head. “I swear on Drusilla’s unlife, we won’t go after the Winchesters,” Spike gritted out, and added “sir,” for good measure.

The man didn’t thank Spike for his obedience. He simply nodded his head, like Spike had made a wise choice but he wasn’t surprised by the decision. Then he drew a long, smooth blade from thin air. “Just in case you change your mind,” he said, calmly, and raised it high above his head.

Spike shouted out in fear and flung himself backwards. He threw himself over Drusilla even as she screamed and tried to throw him off. As Spike looked back in dread, he paused, bewildered. The bright silver blade stood point-down in the doorway, shivering with the force at which it had been driven into the earth. The shining man snapped his fingers, and the sword blazed with fire.

“It seems counter-intuitive to spare your lives,” the man said, with a put-upon sigh. “But as much as I hate to admit it, you have work yet to do on Earth, Spike.”

Spike was not reassured that this creature knew his name. He stayed on the ground, covering Dru’s pain-wracked body with his own. He burned with fury at his helplessness in the face of this unknown man’s power. His mind reeled, trying to understand who this man was, or maybe what he was, and why the Winchesters merited his protection.

“Don’t pursue the matter any further,” the man said, as if he had read Spike’s mind. “Let’s just say I put the fear of God in you and leave it at that.”

And with a gentle gust of breeze and the sound of wings, the man was gone. The sword remained, lit with that holy fire, and the light continued to burn Spike’s eyes. He had to look away.

 

* * *

 

 

            Sam and Dean said their goodbyes and left town early the next morning. The Winchesters were surprised by the amount of hugs they got from all around. They were still in a bit of a daze when they promised to visit Sunnydale again someday. Then they climbed into the Impala and backed out of the hotel driveway.

            “I still can’t believe I missed all the commotion,” Jenny Calendar said, as she patted Sam’s shoulders.

            “I hate to say it, but for once be glad you got a stomach bug,” Sam said.

            “Trust me, Jenny, you didn’t miss out on anything,” Giles said, with a sickly smile.

            “We’re still going to Louisiana together soon!” Willow said, as she waved goodbye to the Winchesters. Xander stood beside her and waved silently.

            “Take care of yourselves, boys!” Buffy said, her arm around Willow.

            “Just wait ‘til I’m legal to come back!” Cordelia called, cheerfully. Dean choked on his coffee.

            “Do try to stay alive!” Giles said, from the edge of the driveway.

            The brothers rolled down the highway for several minutes before they spoke. “Nice town,” Dean said, one hand on the wheel and one hand clutching his coffee cup. “If it weren’t on a Hellmouth, I’d call it one of the nicest we’ve been to, recently.”

            “I think the people are what make it nice,” Sam said, with a smile. He let the sun warm his face out the passenger side window. Then he hesitated a moment before he said, “Dean, does it strike you as odd that we just slipped on out of town without any more trouble?”

            Dean frowned. “Hm. Now that you mention it, it does seem a little suspicious, huh?”

            “More than a little. Almost like it was…”

            “Spit it out, Sammy.”

            “I don’t know,” Sam muttered. “It’s nothing. Never mind.”

            Dean took another swig of coffee and shrugged. “If you say so.” He set his coffee between his legs and used his free hand to turn the volume up on the stereo. [Styx](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_XiWLcK883c) sang about hoping for heaven, the Impala rolled down the California asphalt, and Sam rubbed his thumb over the image of Saint Jude over and over again, as the crucifix rested directly over his heart.

 

END

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all! Pay no attention to the wonky chronology of this fic and the glaring plot holes! Enjoy it for what it is: 190 pages of pure crack. I flatter myself to think it's well-written crack, but it's crack all the same. :)


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